


Boy

by jp298



Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Character Death, College, Coming Out, Dorks in Love, Falling In Love, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Homophobia, Love, M/M, Sweet, True Love, Young Love, friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-04-12 11:03:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19130728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jp298/pseuds/jp298
Summary: 19-year-old Kevin Price is ready for college. What he's not ready for is Connor McKinley, a young Elder who attends the same university.  Through the course of a single school year, Kevin learns about love, loss, acceptance, and hope.





	1. Chapter 1

_We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light._

_~Plato_

**Kevin Price**

**Part I – Fall Semester**

            Dad used to say there were two kinds of people in the world: doers and watchers. He’d shout this over the hollow _ping_ of the metal bat hitting the baseball on a humid, summer afternoon, a thin crowd of fans gathered in the low-rise bleachers beneath the shade of the trees, “That, that right there is a doer, Boy.” He’d whistle low, through his teeth, tipping his baseball cap back for better visibility from beneath the frayed brim, his knuckles turning white, watching the ball soar through the air, the batter sprinting down the field.

            I was never a doer, at least not according to my father; I was a watcher, the worst kind of person. Clumsy, awkward, slow. My brother Jack was the doer, the one out on the baseball field – athletic, agile, fast.  He’d come home sweaty and grass-stained after a game, flushed and effervescent, his eyes glinting. I’d watch him burst through the door from my spot in the kitchen: peeling, dicing, slicing. Dad would give Jack a hearty pat on the back, a “Good game, Son!”, before Jack would smile, shrug him off, leave to shower. Unable to miss a Learning Opportunity, Dad would jab his thumb in the space my brother had just been, “Boy, you could learn a thing or two – to get anywhere, you have to be a _doer_. You don’t get anywhere by watching.” I’d nod, “Yes, Sir,” and he’d smile, his chest puffed out, “Very good!” He’d turn to my mother, his voice rich and deep, “Liza, you’ve outdone yourself, again, that smells wonderful!” And he’d give her a playful peck on the cheek, his calloused hand gentle against her neck.  I would finish setting the table, invisible, the way it was best for all of us. Not doing, just watching.

            I used to try to Do. Dad would haul me along on camping trips with Jack and Danny. He’d show us how to pitch a tent, how to build a fire, setting rocks around a pile of dry leaves, carefully propped twigs. Dad would blow on the smoking debris, before a flame appeared, growing and flickering, dancing. When we ran out of water, we’d follow the stream to the top, where the it was clean enough to drink. Once it was dark, he’d tell us about the Constellations. And always, always it would come back to self-sufficiency, being a _Doer._ When he started talking like that, my mind would wander, vacillating between harboring jealousy of my sister, Megan, who was never asked to go on these annual trips, and missing the comforts of home. Danny and Jack looked forward to camping; they saw it as an adventure, not a Mosquito-infested, sleep-deprived, shower-less opportunity to disappoint Dad. Again.

            I tried fitting in; I tried to play baseball, soccer, basketball, go camping.  Danny would let us tag along when he’d go sledding in the winter, careful to make sure we didn’t wind up knocking into the older boys. He’d laugh, flying down the hill on the saucer-shaped sled, a blur, tumbling off at the bottom, covered in snow. I never liked getting snow down my boots, jacket riding up my back; it was cold and the snow was difficult to walk in. And the bigger kids could be rough, rolling into each other downhill, pelting the smaller ones with snowballs. Jack was younger, but tougher, and quickly joined the ranks with the older kids; I stopped going after that. Or maybe Danny stopped asking – I can’t remember.  But it didn’t really matter if I went or didn’t. The result was always the same.

~~~

            _Today’s the day._

            I’ve been on my own before, during the Mission, but this is different. This is college. The thought is tangible, caught in the back of my throat, a lump wedged too far back to loosen.

            I sit on the neatly-tucked bed, looking at the tiny nick in the chair-rail from the time I’d hung a painting I’d made in art of some flowers. Dad came in and asked why in the world I had a framed picture of flowers on my wall. I’d told him I made it, I painted it in school, and he said boys didn’t make that kind of stuff, not unless they were a screwball. _Do you want people to think you’re a screwball?_ He went to take it down, but it slipped, the painting falling on his hand, chipping the chair-rail on the way down, the frame cracking _._ He stormed off, painting tucked under his arm, nursing his injury. Later that night, he sat beside me on my bed, putting his good hand on my knee, “Boy, it’s just...you know I love you, right?” The words came out crooked, like they didn’t fit in his mouth. He sighed, “Here. Put it away.” He handed me my painting, the frame mended, and clapped me on the back, just a little too hard, smiling grimly, closing the door behind him. I took it, gingerly turning it over, before shoving it in the back of the closet.

            “Kevin?” A soft knock on the doorframe, slow and deliberate.

            “Yeah?” I pull on my sock, reaching blindly beside me for its twin.

            Megan stands in the doorway, “Mom said it’s time to go.”

            “Okay, yeah,” I stand up, and the white sock falls out of my lap. Megan sits down in my desk chair, absently swiveling back and forth.

            “Jack’s already in the car,” she speaks to the wall that used to house my bulletin board littered with Honor Roll certificates, post-its, and pins from high school. I scrapped most of it when I was packing, but left my _First Trip to Disney World_ pin. Megan is staring at it, smiling at _Kevin_ scrawled across the center in black Sharpie, the _i_ dotted with a Mickey Mouse head.

            I nod, wiggling on my tennis shoes, taking a final glance around, grabbing my backpack with my laptop, books, toiletries I’d used up until this morning.  Megan stands, straightening the desk chair and walks across the room, but hesitates in the doorway, turning, “You made the right choice, you know. BYU is a great school.”

            I nod, again, this time faster, like that might make it more meaningful, mumbling, “Shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

 

            Megan doesn’t have Orientation, so she moves in first, her dorm halfway across campus from mine.  She’s used to this, having done it twice already. It’s efficient, easy. Her roommate, Kenzie, is kind, smiling at Jack and me, telling us how great the professors are, how much we’re going to love it, even though Jack isn’t really looking at colleges yet. We’re sweaty and tired and ready for lunch when it’s my turn.

            My roommate, Gideon, is already moved in. He’s been here for a few weeks, training with the Track team.  His side is neat; neater than I’d expect. He has a few posters, but the walls are relatively uncluttered. He’s at his morning practice, when we arrive. I’d been in contact with him, briefly, before this, but I don’t know a lot about him, other than that he apparently likes to run, enough to do it competitively.

            Mom begins with the bedding, which is on top of the pile, while Dad unstacks the rest of the boxes, fiddling with cables and cords, and I unpack the rest, putting them away in their respective categories: clothing, bathroom, desk. The beds are raised enough that I can cram the miscellaneous things underneath until I have more time to organize it. Jack helps move some furniture, but mostly stands, watching.

            “We need to go, there’s a Parent Orientation at eleven,” Dad checks his watch.

            “Will you be okay finishing up?” Mom turns to me, eyebrows knitted together.

            “Yeah,” I shove the empty duffle bag under the bed.                             

            “Well, we’ll meet you back here, then, and we can say our goodbyes...” Mom looks misty-eyed, but smiles.

            When they leave, Jack, who sits in my desk chair, leaning back, pipes up, possibly for the first time since last night – I can’t remember the last time he said much of anything, “Kev, you’re so lucky.”

            “Why?” I look up from the books I’m shelving.

            “It’s just...you’ve got all this. I mean, you’ve got _freedom_.” He stares wistfully out the window at the grassy hill.

            I can’t help but laugh. Jack – jealous of _me_? “You’ll have your turn, soon.”

            “Yeah, but...I mean, my Mission...” He trails off, though neither of us need to wonder exactly what he’s referencing. My mission last year failed. It wasn’t the plan to fail. But fail it did, and now, here I was, in college, a year earlier than I was supposed to be.

            “Right.” I turn back to my books, “Anyway, it’s not like there’s nothing for you at home. You’ve got baseball.”

            “Yeah. I guess.” Jack tilts the chair back further, uncrossing his hands from behind his head.

            “What’s wrong?” I sit down on the bed.

            “It’s just, I’m ready for something else. Something new.” It comes out sideways, the words not quite fitting. He avoids eye contact, throwing my rubber band ball up into the air and catching it with both hands.

            “Jack, you’ve got...your entire life for something new.” I watch him throw the ball again, higher, almost hitting the drywall ceiling, but he doesn’t catch it, just lets it fall, roll under my bed.

            “Well, anyway. With you gone, it’s just...me.” He turns, and to my surprise, I see unadulterated fear, not masked by awards or trophies or the teenage bravado he’d so masterfully crafted.

            I nod. I doubt it would be any worse for him with me gone, but I don’t tell him that.

            “I think you’ll be okay,” I hear myself say with more confidence than either of us really possess.

            “Don’t have much of a choice, do I?” He forces a single laugh, sharp and dry.

 

            When Mom and Dad return, though, Jack doesn’t hug me goodbye. He presses his lips together, a lopsided half-smile, and throws his arm up in a sloppy wave. Dad lands his hand on my shoulder, heavy, awkward, “Well, I guess this is goodbye, Boy.”

            I nod, but don’t dare say anything. He takes a deep breath and then exhales, “Be well, now.” And then looking satisfied, backs away to allow my mother forward, who throws her arms around my neck.

            “Goodbye, Sweetheart,” she whispers into my ear, “I love you.” She buries her face into my shoulder, inhaling, exhaling.

            I nod, again, as she untangles her arms from me, still holding on – we both hold on. And then she lets go, Jack and Dad already at the door.

            “Call us tomorrow?” Mom turns from the hall, quiet now that the busyness from earlier has ebbed.

            I nod, my throat dry, “Yep.”

           

            Gideon returns after the hub of moving in has slowed and students are feeling the rush of adrenaline being alone for the first time.

            “You must be Kevin,” He shakes my hand, heartily. He’s taller than I imagined, lean, but muscular.  His hair is neatly trimmed, brown with blonde highlights, his face tanned and freckled, his eyes the color of celery, flecked with gold.

            “Hi,” I feel small next to him, and clear my throat, “Um, so you were at Track?”

            “Yeah, Coach is really something,” he laughs to himself at a joke I didn’t hear, “What’s your major again?”

            “Business.” Dad said it would serve well, and Danny said he’d never regretted getting his degree in business.

            “Really?” Gideon ever-so-slightly wrinkles his nose, cocking his head to the side, “I mean, no offense, but you don’t really look like the type.”

            _What’s that supposed to mean?_ I shrug, “What about you?”

            “Chemistry, I think. Did well in it in high school, you know?”

            I nod. If we were going into majors based off what we liked in high school, I should get an English degree. I wrote competently, and was at least adequate in deciphering all the symbols and motifs in the literature we were required to read. But Dad said no son of his was getting a degree that was basically the college equivalent of trading cards: looks pretty but has little to no function. “You’ve got your future to think of, Boy,” he’d say, emphasizing _future_ , like he’s unsure how to define it. I didn’t argue, there wasn’t anything to argue about.

            “Well, anyway, I’m gonna go take a shower,” Gideon gathers his things, edging out the door, “You know, you should come with me, later, a bunch of us are grabbing dinner.”

             I nod, again, but realize I’ve only been nodding, so I try to think of something to say, something enlightening, something that won’t make Gideon think his new roommate is a total idiot, but all I can come up with is: “Yeah, sounds fun!”

 

            It’s at lunch, a week into classes when I see him.

            Fire is licking at my heels, heat rising, smoke suffocating, ash falling. But instead of running from the fire, I freeze, mesmerized. The fire is 6 feet tall and smiling.

_Connor McKinley._

            Pressure works its way up, wedging itself uncomfortably between my eyes, a scratch I can’t itch. For the briefest moment, I’ve convinced myself that it’s just a mirage, a subconscious apparition.  But when I look back, he’s still there, at the table, laughing with a handful of people I don’t recognize.

            “Kev...?” Gideon raises an eyebrow, “You okay?”

            “Yeah, uh, yeah,” I look away from Connor, catapulting back to earth.

            “You know him?” Gideon lowers his voice, enough that I strain to hear him over the noise of the cafeteria.

            I shake my head, _No, no I don’t_ , hoping my face doesn’t betray the truth. Not that I’m sure why I’m lying. Nothing _happened_ in Uganda. At least not that kind of thing that would scandalize us, spread like wildfire throughout the college, and turn us into pariahs, outcasts. Nothing happened. Connor was Out, sort of, I was not.

            Am not.

            “He’s...odd. One of the guys on the team is roommates with him...” Gideon stops, collects himself, “Anyway, you don’t want to be messing around with that, if you know what I mean.”

            I’m not certain I know what he’s talking about in the most precise terms, but I nod slowly, feigning understanding, “Yeah.”

            “Anyway, I’m gonna clear my tray. Got Lab,” Gideon has moved on, nonchalant, and leaves me picking at my sandwich and chips, watching Connor in my peripheral vision, talking just as vibrantly as he always had.

 

            We run into each other, though, against Gideon’s advice. It’s inevitable, even in our separate social circles. We’re in line to pay for our lunches, when he turns around, noticing me.

            “Kevin!” Connor doesn’t bat an eye, his smile spreading across his entire face. Even his eyes are smiling.

            “Hi,” I smile, but it’s tentative compared to his, shy.

            “Well, I didn’t think I’d be seeing you here.”

            _The same to you,_ I think to myself, but instead say, “Yeah, I applied after...”

            He laughs, rich and bright, “Yeah, me too. Thought it’d be better than moving too far.”

            I can’t stop my face from morphing into shock, confusion. Didn’t Connor _want_ to move far away?

            “Just...with the mission, you know. I realized I was done with being far from home.”

            I nod, slowly, trying to think of something to say, something that wouldn’t sound stupid, “Well, it’s nice to know someone, here,” I offer. _Besides my sister._

            “Too true,” He moves up in the line, handing the cashier his student ID, “Be well!” He waves and disappears into the crowd of students.

            _Be well_.

           

            Gideon comes back to the room after Practice one night, startling me from my reading, “There’s a Halloween party off-campus, we’re gonna go in like, an hour, you want in?” He grabs his shower caddy and towel.

            “Yeah, sure,” I close my book – enough of that. I’d never been to any kind of party in high school. I was always too busy, or afraid of getting caught. Mom and Dad didn’t approve of anyone drinking, adults, teenagers, whoever. So, I didn’t drink. I stayed home and studied.  But it turns out there’s more than one way to disappoint your parents.

            “It’s gonna be good,” he smiles, and walks to the showers, whistling off-tune.

 

            We pile into a van, one or two faces I recognize from classes, mostly guys I don’t, and drive the couple of miles to the house with the party. The music is already loud and there are plenty of people there when we arrive, talking, drinking, laughing. The rooms are kind of dark, but I stay with Gideon, his friends, until they disperse. I scan the room for a face I recognize, someone who isn’t already absolutely plastered, and somehow, somehow my eyes settle on Connor, who’s talking to another guy at the table with the drinks, a tall guy in a maroon polo shirt with a popped collar and too-tight pants. His hair is gelled back, slicked and smooth. The guy rolls his eyes, laughing, and walks away, crooked, dizzy.

            I approach, carefully, and Connor sees me, “Kevin!”

            “Hi,” I smile, my hands still in my pockets.

            “You gotta relax; try this,” Connor hands me a cup. I don’t ask what it is, but I sniff it – it’s bitter, acidic. The drink is tepid, and I take a small sip, hand it back, “Thanks.”

            “Here, lemme pour one for you,” Connor’s face is flushed, his hair messy. His words are a little slurred, but he seems to know what he’s doing.

            I take the cup, take a larger sip. It has a bite, fizzing and burning.

            “It’s not very good, is it?” Connor laughs, a belly-laugh, the sound warm and bright. Genuine.

            I shake my head, but gulp the drink quickly, sputtering, slamming down the empty cup, smiling, “It-it’s like...” I can’t think of how to describe it. But it doesn’t matter, because Connor pours me another, something different.

            “This might be better.” I smell it, it’s fruity and sweet, not like the last. Connor watches me drink it with mild amusement, before laughing again, “I didn’t like it too much the first time, either. Jungle juice. This is way better.”

            I nod, letting the sweet taste stay in my mouth. Connor pours himself a drink, and we walk around, watching people talk, laugh, kiss. It’s cool outside, but it feels nice, compared to the sweaty heaviness of inside the house. There isn’t anywhere to sit, so we go back in, have another drink – Connor makes it a sweet one, a Connor Special. It goes down easier than the first two, faster, and I feel a warm flush extend from my face to my stomach. I think I’m talking louder, now, but I’m not sure. I want to stay here, with Connor, but he’s laughing with someone else at the table, pouring them one of his specialty drinks. They leave, and it’s just the two of us again, when I feel Connor take my hand, warm and sticky. I try to think, but my mind is buzzing, humming.  My heart is beating fast, but I don’t know if it’s from what I drank or Connor.

            “Come with me,” he yells over the music, passing by Gideon, the guys I came with, Megan, Kenzie, upperclassmen, people I don’t know.

            I follow him, though the crowd, out the door.

 

            We walk along the sidewalk until we reach a park. I don’t know how far we’ve gone, and I don’t know how we’re supposed to get home. But Connor laughs, jumping onto the swing. He pumps his legs a few times, kicking rhythmically.

            “What are you doing?” I hear myself laugh, the sound bubbly, fuzzy.

            “Swinging,” he says it seriously, “I’m swinging, Kevin.” A laugh erupts, deep and strong.

            I sit down on the swing beside him, but keep my feet on the ground, “It’s midnight.”

            “Yeah, I know,” He smiles, still swaying forward and back, but becomes serious again, “It was loud, back there.”

            I nod, but I’m not sure how well he can see me, “It was.”

            “I-I wanted to be able to be with you, you know? Actually spend time, talk to you.” His words are more slurred that they’d been earlier. While he’d been pouring me drinks, I realize I don’t know how many he’d had. I get off the swing, climb onto the slide a few feet away.

            Conner gets down off the swing, comes over to slide, pressing his chin against the side. I stay on my perch, but don’t move away. And he makes eye contact. In the light of the streetlights, I can see his eyes, wide and beautiful, devastatingly blue, the kind of eyes that make me feel safe. He’s close enough that I can see the faint freckles dotting his nose and cheeks, a constellation I’d never seen before. He’s blushing, but doesn’t look away, moving closer. And I’m moving closer, so close our foreheads touch, bent against the other. Connor gently reaches his up, touches my neck, but I don’t pull away. He laces his fingers through mine, and they fit perfectly, matching, familiar. I can feel the heat radiating from his hand, pulsing like electricity from the spot it touched. It’s cool outside, the wind blowing through bare trees, rustling fallen leaves, but my skin burns. I reach out, lightly rest my free hand on his shoulder, feel the muscles ripple beneath his shirt when he moves his arm from my neck to side of my face, cupped around my ear. He tips his chin forward, our lips barely touching. He’s gentle, our lips interlocking before he pulls away, but staying close enough to feel his heart, beating rapidly against my palm. Like magnetized fields, drawn together, sparking, igniting. A rush fills my stomach, fuzzy and warm.

             One kiss.

             And then as if snapped out of a reverie, I jump back.

             “S-s-stop, stop, we-we can’t,” my voice rises in volume and pitch, panicked. And Connor sits down where he is, sliding down the side of the play structure.

             “I know.” His voice is muffled, his hands buried in his face.

             I’m quiet, and I still feel warm, but it’s different – tickly, prickly, itchy. I want to leave, I need to get out of here.

             “I’m sorry.” There’s a crack in his voice, splintering into fragments. I think he might be crying, but I stay on the slide, my knees pulled up to my chest, arms wound tightly around them.  _I kissed him. I let him kiss me. I enjoyed it. People who do this go to Hell. I’m going to Hell._

            The thoughts settle like a stutter, never settled. My chest rises and falls quickly, and I bury my head in my knees. We sit in silence, neither of us daring speak. But after what feels like decades, I untangle myself, unwrap my legs, come out from the safety of myself, and climb down, “We should go.”

            I hold out my hand, no longer a magnet, and Connor takes it, pulling himself up from the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

            Gideon is back in the room when I return, tired and stiff. My head hurts, and I feel unsteady, like I’m walking on an imaginary tightrope. Clinging to the wall, I make my way into the dark toward my bed. Gideon is quiet, and I think he might be asleep until he sits up.

            “Hey, we were wondering where you went.”

            “Oh, nowhere; it’s nothing,” I turn away, clumsily pull my shirt off, change into my pajamas.

            Gideon doesn’t say anything. I remember passing him when I was with Connor. I don’t think he saw us. What was there to see? There wasn’t really anything to see.  I don’t think we even held hands until later at the park. Or maybe we did at the party. I can’t remember. Wait, was Megan there, too? I think so. But I can’t ask. Maybe it wasn’t her. I’m not sure. She wouldn’t necessarily know about Connor. But Gideon never liked Connor, in the first place, so if he saw us...would he think we were doing something together? Connor was like that, obvious, indiscrete. And Gideon had made it clear that he thought it was disgusting – we were disgusting. I thought it was disgusting, too, until tonight. Or it’s still disgusting, but not really – it can’t be disgusting if it felt that good. But I know Gideon wouldn’t understand what I meant.

            Nobody really understood, except perhaps, Connor.

 

            At lunch the following Monday, I see Connor.

            He’s with the same couple of people, doing the same thing he’s always done. Does he do this with everyone? Hold their hands? Take them to parks and drunkenly kiss them under the stars?  Not in the hungry way drunk boys at parties do, but in the tender way of new love.  And does his heart beat the way it did that night, like hummingbird wings? I could feel it – did he feel mine? Did he know what he was doing? He was looking at me, as though he was seeing me for the first time. We were so close, I don’t know how he could see anything when he was gazing into my eyes, but it felt like he could see me in entirety.

            _You’ve become nothing but a cliché._

“Kevin, earth to Kevin!” Gideon is smiling, waving his hand.

            “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” I scramble to figure out what I’ve missed in the last few minutes.

            “You gotta relax,” Gideon takes a long swig of water. I remember that’s what Connor had said to me, the night we kissed. _You gotta relax._ “Thought we lost you there, for a second.” He’s teasing, his eyes shiny, the corners crinkled, and I feel myself smile.

            “Nope, I’m right here.”

            After The Incident, I’ve avoided talking too much to Gideon. He's probably already suspicious of where I went that night. But he’s been busy with his upcoming Lab, forcing him to take his lunch to-go. I’ve feigned disappointment, played the role well, but harbored relief, feeling like I could breathe just a little easier when he’d announce he was going to take a rain-check on lunch.

            I find an empty table, small enough to not feel lonely. I open a bag of chips, trying not to look up and over at Connor too often. But our eyes meet, once, and he looks as though he wants to say something to me, even from across the cafeteria. I look away, cheeks burning – I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t let him do this to me, to himself, to us. I’m not hungry, and there’s no use sitting here, so I bus my tray, promise not to waste so much food in the future.

            “Kevin!” He taps me on the shoulder and I jump, not expecting him to be standing around the corner. His friends have dispersed, it’s just Connor, waiting. I glance around, unsure what to do. Run? Running’s not an option, and besides, Connor is probably faster than me. I reach up, holding onto my backpack straps, frozen.

            “I wanted to talk to you, I wanted to–I wanted to just...,” Connor sighs, “I wanted to talk a-about what happened.”

            “There’s nothing to talk about,” I force a smile, stiff and artificial, “We’re good.”

            “But are we?” He searches my eyes, and apparently finds nothing, prompting him to continue, “I mean, you’ve been dodging me for weeks. We need to talk.”

            “Do we have to? Right now?” I glance over my shoulder. Students walk by, but seem uninterested. We’re unnoticed, nondescript—for now. But I want to keep it that way.

             “Nobody’s looking,” Connor hisses, snapping, his voice so low I have to strain to hear, “Look, will you come to my dorm at 3? My roommate has Track tonight, he won’t be back for hours. Can we talk, then?”

             Weighing the odds of someone overhearing, and getting Connor to leave me alone, I meet his eyes, “Yeah. Okay.”

 

            I wait outside the dorm, having left later than I expected, texting Connor, hoping nobody asks why I’m standing around like a solicitor.

            Connor replies seconds later, _Be there in a minute._

I sigh, scuffing my shoe along the edge of the sidewalk, where the grass meets.

            “Sorry,” Connor lets me in, leads me down a labyrinth of staircases and hallways.

            “Home sweet home,” he flings the door open. The room is basically identical to mine, except that Connor has decorated with rugs, photos from home, throw pillows. “If you wanna sit,” he gestures at a folding lounge chair, straddling his desk chair.

            “Kev, I just, I need to know...” His eyes wander to the ceiling, absentmindedly scratching his ear, “I mean, that night.” He laughs, his shoulders hitching forward, but it’s not his signature belly-laugh, full and brassy. “Was it just me?”

            “We were drunk,” I say it firmly, like it settles the case, repeating myself for good measure, “We were drunk, Connor.”

            “But...” he shakes his head, serious again, “I mean, drunk or not...,” He shrugs, seems to be thinking of how to exactly phrase what he’s going to say, “I just...Kevin, you’re really...great.”

            “Thanks.”

_You’re really great, too. But you’re you. And I’m me._

            “And I just...I don’t regret kissing you. I regret if it made you uncomfortable, I regret that; I regret it ruining our friendship, but I-I don’t want to pretend like I didn’t like it – like, if you wanted to, I wouldn’t do it again in an instant.” I almost allow myself to believe him, to swoon. He cares what I think, he cares about me. But I stop myself, shake my head.

            “We can’t,” I hear myself whisper.

            “Why.” Connor cocks his head to the side, but it’s not a question, it’s a challenge.

_Why not, Kevin. Why can’t we._

            “B-because...” I stutter, flashing to the look of horror on Dad’s face if he ever found out, the despair, the anger, the betrayal, the hurt, “I can’t.” I think of Beck, a kid who made the mistake of coming out to some friends who weren’t friends in high school. His parents sent him away to Conversion Therapy as soon as it happened. _Immersive_ , they called it. When Dad heard, he smiled. “Thank Heavenly Father that boy is getting help,” he’d said. And then in that moment, I knew exactly what my fate would be; I knew to not make the same mistakes Beck did.

            “But why.” Connor’s pressing, testing.

            I whisper, not trusting myself to say it out loud, side-stepping, “I’m not like you.”

            “What’s that mean?” The game is over. He flinches back, furrowed brow, cogs turning, gears spinning, unable to tease apart precisely what I meant.

            _I’m not out; I can’t come out. Before you, I never even wanted to. I was never going to._

            “I’m not brave. Or...out. I’m not _out_ , Connor.” The word is sticky, hard to say, even though it’s only one syllable.

            Connor’s eyes are wide, and I turn around, immediately registering why. Standing in the open doorway is his roommate, nose wrinkled, mouth open.

            “You’re back early,” Connor’s voice is noncommittal, smooth and stoic. His eyes are no longer the size of saucers, and he’s smiling slightly, in the pinched way someone who’s talking down a person about to detonate a bomb might.

            “Track—finished early,” his roommate sputters, “I-I don’t...what’s going on...?” His roommate clutches his gym bag, holding it tightly against him. For a moment, I hoped maybe he wouldn’t have heard, wouldn’t have understood what I’d said without context, but from his desperate look, his eyes darting from Connor to me, I know he did. He wouldn’t act like this if he hadn’t, like being gay could be contagious if he got too close.

            “Sorry,” Connor speaks for both of us, “We’re just leaving.”


	3. Chapter 3

            Connor finds a quiet area in the student union, away from the studying and eating and blare of televisions.

            “Connor...” I pace, “Connor, I don’t—he heard—he _heard_ me!”

            “Calm down, just—just calm down.” Connor slumps back into a chair, “I just need to think for a second.”

            “What’s there to think about?” My voice rises, but I realize someone is going to hear if I keep yelling. I lower my voice to a whisper, but it’s still effectively screaming, “He heard us! He thinks we’re—I’m...he’s so freaked out. He’s gonna tell people! My roommate is in Track with him, he’s gonna know!”

            “Kev, it’s gonna be okay. I’ll talk to him. It’ll be okay.” Connor massages his temples.

            “You don’t _know_ that,” I sink into a chair, pulling my knees up to my chest.

            “Yeah, but...I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?” Connor shrugs, “We can’t worry about it. He didn’t _see_ anything.”

            “But he heard! He heard a lot of things.”  _I'm not out. Not out. Not out. Not out._

            “He didn’t really. What did you say? I think all you said was that you’re not out. That could mean a lot of things.” Connor is so nonchalant, so infuriatingly optimistic.

            “What else could it possibly mean?” I groan. It’s only a matter of time, now, until I get that letter in the mail from Residence Life, telling me to report to the Honor Code office, or worse.

            “Out of orange juice? Out of time?” Connor sighs, “I guess what I’m trying to say is that it could be worse. You didn’t incriminate yourself. Seriously.”

            I want to argue, but my heart is already beating too fast, and I’m out of breath. My chest hurts, and my stomach feels like it’s stretching from my lower abdomen to my throat. I stay curled up, resting my forehead on my knees until I feel a hand, warm and soft on my shoulder. There is darkness, with my face buried in my arms and legs. I don’t dare look up, back into the light. Back at Connor.

            “Listen, it’ll be okay. We’re in this together.” I know he means to make me feel better, but if we weren’t together, we wouldn’t have ever been in this mess to start with. I don’t bat his hand off, but I don’t take it either. I don’t feel the electricity pulse through my fingers and palms the moment our hands touch.

            I almost wish I never had.

 

            I sit alone in the cafeteria on Monday, a full weekend since his roommate walked in on us, but nothing has happened. No phone calls, no emails, not even a text, from Connor or anyone else.  Connor is striding over, shoulders hunched, backpack slung over one arm, but otherwise empty-handed.

            “We need to talk.” _Yeah, because the last time we did, it ended so well._

            “Why?” I turn to face him. He looks smaller, stooped over, like he’s trying to shrink. His voice is low, his eyebrows knitted together. His eyes have deep, dark circles beneath them.

            “Look,” He reaches into the pocket of his bag, and hands me a letter from Resident Life, sitting down in the chair across from me.

_Dear Connor McKinley, Due to recent events, Residence Life in accordance with the beliefs and the mission of the school, must ask you to leave on-campus housing, effective immediately. Please clear your side of the room and turn in your room key to the Resident Advisor on-call by midnight Friday, November 20. Thank you for your understanding. Sincerely, Mr. Davis Armento, ARD._

“It was my roommate,” Connor mumbled, folding the letter back up, “He probably reported me.”

            “And they can kick you out just like that?” My eyes widen, incredulous. Even though I’d been hysterical immediately after it occurred, I’d been able to shelve the _what if’s_ as days passed and nothing happened. Nothing was going to happen. We were going to be okay. _How wrong I was_.

            “Yeah, I guess,” Connor rolls his eyes, sighing heavily. “I just...” His voice breaks, and he swipes at his eyes roughly with open fists, pinching his lips together tightly, chuckling thinly, composing himself. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

            _All because of me._

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. 

            Connor invited me over. It started with him. If he didn’t invite me, I wouldn’t have been there to say what I did when his roommate came back early. But it ended with me, with his roommate overhearing me. Regardless of how out of context it was, there was no way to remedy it, excuse it. Especially because it wasn’t out of context. That fragment, those three words were understood, just as well as if he’d heard the full conversation. 

            No, it was his roommate, not me, not Connor. If his roommate hadn’t been so...phobic, so overreactive, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess. He must’ve reported Connor immediately after. To who? What did he tell them? Did he mention me? Connor is the only one who got a letter, I checked my mail today. Why is Connor the only one paying the price?

            Connor’s probably asking himself the same question.

            We sit in silence for what feels like hours, not touching, not even looking at each other, until Connor sighs, his voice reedy, “I should go.”

            I don’t hear or see Connor again until the Tuesday before break, after he’s supposed to be moved out of his old room. I wave from where I’m standing; Connor offers a tiny smile, raising his eyebrows and tipping up his chin, but pays for his food and walks in the opposite direction, away from the people he usually sits with. He’s alone, at a small table, and I tentatively follow.

            “Is this seat taken?” I stand beside the empty chair, hopeful, and Connor looks up. His plate is still almost full, but he picks at it, like it’s a chore to eat. I notice his cheekbones are more prominent, his hair sticking up out the cowlick in the back, not smoothed down like it usually is. Dark craters lie beneath his eyes, out of place.

            “Oh, um, I’m just really busy. With work. I’m gonna be leaving soon.” He won't look at me. Can't look at me.

            _Don’t sit_. _Leave me alone._

            I back away, clutching my lunch tray, my voice quiet, “Okay. See you.”


	4. Chapter 4

            Thanksgiving Break is a welcome reprieve from the drama at school. Megan drives us home, the radio set to her Pandora station, Classical. I recognize a few pieces – I’d played them in elementary school, an abbreviated, simplified version.  We don’t talk; she focuses on the road, never having been particularly comfortable with driving in the first place. I scroll mindlessly through my phone until I start to feel dizzy, an ache in the pit of my stomach, as we pass the city, fading into the horizon, an endless stretch of highway and trees before us.

 

            Mom is waiting for us in the kitchen when we pull into the narrow driveway. She’s wearing her apron, face flushed. It’s warm inside, the lights bright compared to the cloudy twilight outside.

            “You’re home! Oh, I’m missed you! You’ll have to tell me all about college!” She hugs both of us in turn, nuzzling her nose into our hair. I’ve forgotten how home feels.

            Megan smiles, “Help me unpack the car?” I nod, bounding down the steps, grabbing my duffle bag, backpack, laundry bag. Megan does the same, slamming the door shut, grunting under the weight.

            The doors of our rooms are closed, but the lights are on, the thermostat turned up. I notice that Mom has left a clean pair of jeans folded on my bed; they must’ve still been in the laundry when I left for school in August. I run back downstairs, where Mom is chopping garlic, the bread already sliced and laid out on a baking sheet.

            “You want to dice?” She hands me her knife, moving to the stove. I can smell pasta boiling, see steam rising in clouds over the pot. In another pot, I spot meatballs, cooking in red sauce. Spaghetti. Mom always did this, cooking our favorites after we’ve returned from summer camp, Missions, college.

            “So, how are you?” Mom doesn’t look up from the bread she’s buttering, but I know she’s paying attention.

            “Good.” I try to think of a better word to describe it, without going into all the Connor details, “It’s been really good.”

            “Really?” Mom turns, looks at me, “I mean, you’re doing alright?”

            “Yeah,” I smile, trying not to think about Connor. I must be pretty convincing because she turns back, taking my diced garlic and sprinkling it over the bread.

            “We should be ready in ten minutes. Would you tell Megan? And your father and Jack are out in the garage, I think.”

            I nod, washing my hands and wiping them on the dishtowel, the one with the tiny embroidered purple flowers when Megan went through a sewing phase a few years prior. She still enjoys sewing, I think, but I’m not certain.

            “Meg, dinner’s gonna be ready in 10,” Megan’s door is open, and she’s sprawled across her bed, reading.

            “Okay,” she closes her book, dog-earing the corner of the page she’s on, but doesn’t stand.

            I jog down the steps to the garage, where I find Dad bent over the open hood of the car, Jack standing nearby with a wrench.

            “Jack, just get in there, and—”

            “Hi, dinner’s ready, soon,” I hate that my voice shakes a little when I say it, high-pitched and thin.

            “Kevin!” Dad surfaces, smiling, “Is Megan with you?”

            “No, she-she’s upstairs, I think,” my hand convulses, twitching in the general direction.

            “We can finish up later,” Dad scrubs his hands against a stained towel lying nearby, and turns to me, “The car’s been acting up. Engine oil needs changing.”

            I nod, like I understand what he’s talking about even though I don’t. It was always Jack or Danny who knew this stuff. Dad used to try to explain to me, and perhaps he still might, but I doubt it would help my innate ineptitude.

 

            Mom comes into my room after dinner is cleared and Dad and Jack are back in the garage. I’m working on an essay due the day we get back, when I hear her knocking on the door, softly. She sits on my bed, smoothing the blankets that are already smooth.

            “So, I want to hear about college,” She smiles; it reminds of the times I’d come back after a Youth trip. She’d come into my room later that night after I’d come home, and she’d ask a few carefully chosen questions about what happened, letting me drivel on until I eventually got tired.

            “College is good,” I hold up my hands as though I'm pleading no contest.

            “But...how is it? Like, have you been mingling?” She looks hopeful. I didn’t date very much in high school, and never had the nerve to ask anyone out, anyway. The girls all travelled in groups, herds, and none of my friends dated very seriously – they’d go out for group dates, but that was all.

            “Yeah, a little,” I figure I can give her an abbreviated version of what I’d been doing, enough so she won’t worry, “A bunch of us, Gideon and some others, we went out a few weeks ago.”

            “Did you have fun? What did you do?” She searches for subtext, something that might indicate more than what I’ve just said.

            “Just hung out, group-date,” I nod, shrug, feign nonchalance. She wouldn’t know what had transpired that night, but I still feel my stomach begin to clench, fear sidling into the space between us like an unwelcome guest.  My neck begins to get hot, prickly. I try to keep my face neutral.

            “Kev, are you okay?” Mom studies my face. This is the second time tonight she’s asked how I’m doing. Does she know? How could she know? Megan was there, maybe, but I can’t remember. Would Megan have told Mom?

            I nod, this time more vigorously, “Just a little tired. Long day.”

            “Okay, Sweetie,” Mom stands, leans down to kiss me on the forehead, “Get some rest.”

            “Night,” I whisper, but she’s already left the room.

 

            The next afternoon, I pace around my bedroom for a while, before working up enough resolve. _Brave_ was the word I’d used when I talked to Connor about being Out. And he was brave – he was so unflinchingly himself. But in all the times we’ve spoken, we’ve never talked about it. How he came out, how he did it. Now I wish I’d asked. Talking to Megan about that night isn’t coming out, but it’s certainly close enough, especially if she knows as much as I fear she might.

            _Get a grip, Price, you’ve got the spine of a jellyfish. You’re going to talk to her. And it’ll be fine._

            Megan is in her room with the door closed when I knock, softly.

            “Come in?” She sounds distracted, but when I slowly push open the door, she’s looking up, waiting. 

            “Hey,” her face softens and she smiles.

            “Do you have a second?” My voice trembles, and I jam my hands into my pockets to hide my shaking hands.

            “Yeah,” she spins around, oblivious, sits up on her bed, “What’s up?”

            I sit in her desk chair, facing her, my feet up and balanced on the bar between the chair legs, “I-I wanted to just ask...you were at that party? Like, weeks ago.”

            She nods, “Yeah.”

            “Do you...do you remember...?” I trail off. _Do you remember seeing me? Do you remember what happened?_

“Remember...?” She shakes her head, studying me, her eyes shifting, darting between mine.

            “R-r-remember anything...?”

            “Yeah, I remember a little.” She smiles, like she’s trying to make a point. Coy, almost. “Crazy party, right? The one where you started singing karaoke?” I realize she’s teasing.

            “What...? No. I mean, very funny, but...like...do you remember...me? At the party?” I’m pleading now, trapped on the edge, my voice splintering.

            “I was kidding, Kev. I was mostly with Kenzie and Abel, I barely saw you,” her smile falters, “But...you and Connor left. Together.” Point blank. She’s stopped playing games.

            I feel my stomach lurch, into my chest, before falling back down into my abdomen. For a moment, I think I’m going to be sick, my shoulders heaving up, my throat constricting. Megan watches, her eyebrows knitted together, “I’m sorry.”

            When the feeling passes, I speak, still dizzy, “So you know.”

            Megan sighs, “...Yes.”

            “Do Mom and Dad know?”

            “No.”

            “Jack? Or Danny?” My voice pitches up, but I press my lips together, swallowing the lump in the back of my throat.

            “No.” She shakes her head, “Only me.”

            There is a pause, and we sit, facing each other. My heart is beating fast enough to feel in my palms, and I realize I’ve forgotten to breathe. The room is suffocating, closing in.

            “Are you...?” I can’t finish the sentence, even though there are plenty of different ways.

            Megan thinks for a moment, a terrible, long, moment, “...Going to tell?” She almost laughs, but it’s dry, in the back of her throat, “No. If that’s what you’re worried about, I won’t tell anyone.” She becomes serious again, “But I think a lot of people saw you, Kev. You need to know that.”

            “No. I mean, yeah, but...I-I mean, are you—do you...hate me?” I finish lamely, my voice cracking, lurching.

            “No.” Her voice is firm, like she used to use when Jack and I were toddlers and she was in charge. Her voice flips, face softening, “You’re my brother.” As if that can be enough of a reason.

            I inhale, the air brittle.

            “I-I...I think I like boys.” The words rush out in a single breath, like saying them faster might make them less painful. I pause, searching, struggling to explain, to pinpoint a reason for her inevitable question. “I don’t know why, I—”

            “—I know.” Her voice is quiet, and she’s staring into her lap. Seconds pass before she speaks again, looking up, “Do you remember when we went to Disney when we were younger? And after the parade, you told me Prince Eric was the handsomest?”

            I nod. I hadn’t remembered that until she’d just said it, but I can remember sitting in the hotel room. Mom, Dad, Danny, and Jack were out, probably getting some more water bottles. It was just Megan and I, sitting on the beds, talking about favorite princes and princesses. Or more accurately, princes.

            “I don’t want to make you, if you don’t want to, but...do you want to talk about it?” I know she’s not talking about Disney, anymore. But there’s nothing to say.

            “No.” It’s more clipped than I intended. I try again, “I don’t know.”

            Megan considers what I’ve said for a minute, before speaking slowly, “I-I don’t think I can tell you everything will be okay, because I don’t really know. But I think you’ll be okay.”

            I can’t disguise my surprise, “Why?”

            “Because. You’ve always been the tough one. I mean, Jack is always breaking things and Danny beats up anyone who looks at him funny, but you’re tough. You just sort of absorb and move on.” She says it simply, like nothing could be truer.

            “What if I can’t just ‘move on’?” I whisper. _What if I made a mistake I can't take back? What if I am a mistake?_

            “You can.” Megan shrugs, “You always have.”

 

            We drive back to school the last day of Break with different music, grittier, less polished. I don’t recognize any of the songs, but I like the way it sounds, the reverb through the speakers.

            “Kev?” Megan’s voice cuts through the singer's. I turn back the dial on the volume.

            “Yeah?” I feel my stomach drop. She's going to ask me questions, and she's going to judge my answers. But she's known all this time, she's known about this _thing_ , and she's never once said anything about it. Why didn't she ever say anything? 

            “I-I don’t want to pry, but with Connor—are you sure that’s a good idea?” Her voice tips, tentative, uneasy.

            I shake my head. _No, it’s actually a terrible idea._ But he’s not speaking to me, right now, anyway.

            I settle for, “I don’t really know.” My voice is faint, barely audible over the sound of the road, the music. I stare out the window at the flat horizon, a blanket of trees.

            “I just...after you left, I was thinking. I can’t tell you what to do, Kevin, but...be careful?”

            I brace myself for more, for her disapproval, her disappointment, but when it doesn’t come, I nod, “Yeah, I will.”


	5. Chapter 5

            The day classes resume, Gideon leaves lunch early, friends disbanding. I remain, my eyes wandering over to Connor. He’s also alone, and hasn’t even bothered buying lunch. He’s staring at a book, propped on top of a notebook, but he doesn’t seem to be reading, just staring.

            “Hey,” I ease up to the table, hands in my pockets.

            “Oh!” Connor seems startled but not disturbed, “I didn’t even hear you come up.”

            “May I?” I point at the empty chair, and to my relief, Connor nods.

            I half-expect Connor to force small-talk, but after a moment, he bursts, “I got an apartment.”

            “Where?” I hear myself ask, even though I don’t really care where. _Are you okay?_ is what I really want to ask, but I’m afraid of the answer; afraid he might scoff or run away. Afraid he might say ‘No’.

            “A few miles off-campus, this little one-bedroom thing.” He turns the corners of his mouth up, but his eyes are dull, “I found it, after I got the letter. I moved in right before break.”

            “How is it?” _It’s your fault he lives off-campus._

            “Fine. It’s nice, I guess, to have the space. And no roommates,” he laughs dryly, finishes putting away his books, turning his full attention to me.

            A moment passes, pregnant and still.

            “I’m really sorry,” I stare down a dent in the table, focusing on it so hard I go cross-eyed, before looking up to see him wrinkle his nose.

            “Why?” He’s genuinely curious, like he has no idea what I’m talking about.

            “I-I just feel bad, you know. That you had to leave campus. It was me, your roommate overheard. And now you’re-you’re just...” I trail off. I don’t know how to finish that sentence, not without sounding like a complete and utter jerk. Or more than a jerk I’ve already been.

            “Kevin.” Connor rolls his eyes, smiling. Saying my name sounds so natural, like he’s been saying it his entire life, “What happened...sucked. It was unfair and stupid. But I don’t blame you.”

            “You don’t?”

            “No! I mean, I was angry and sad, but I was never angry and sad at you.” He sighs, “It’s just...here. You know, the people here. And it all just kinda reminded me how things really are.”

            I feel a little better since Connor said he didn’t blame me, the knot in my stomach loosening, but it doesn’t change the fact that his situation is still kind of my fault. His fault. Our fault.

            “Do you want to come over? Sometime? I don’t have roommates, so nobody can walk in on us but...it gets kinda lonely.” He looks sheepish, like he’s been sitting on this question the entire conversation.

            I nod, unable to fully articulate, “Yeah. Thanks.”

 

            On Friday, I get The Text from Connor: _Want to hang out? I can pick you up if you need a ride._

 _Thanks,_ I reply. Polite, but chill. It doesn’t betray the fluttering in my stomach, the quickened pulse hammering in my chest.

            Shoving my phone in my pocket, I race back to the dorm room. Gideon is gone and I’m alone. Unsure how long I have until he returns, I quickly change my t-shirt into something clean, something attractive, something that doesn’t have BYU written on it. A blue, plaid button-down. I brush my teeth, fix my hair, check my phone.

_Be there in 5._

             Glancing at my reflection in the mirror one last time, I head downstairs, sit down on the bench outside and wait. Light flurries are beginning to fall, dotting my hair and shoulders, but I can’t risk sitting inside and someone asking where I’m going, what I’m doing.

 

             Connor’s apartment is small, just a living area with a sink, stove, and refrigerator in the corner, a bathroom, and a bedroom. But he’s made it as cozy as possible, with framed pictures of friends, shelves lined with books, a brightly colored quilt draped over the sofa.

            “Well. Here is it,” Connor closes the door behind him, locking it.

            “It’s nice,” I sit down carefully on the sofa, “So...”

             “So, I was thinking we could watch a movie?” Connor flicks through his Netflix queue, reading off titles. I don’t really care what we watch, but Connor keeps listing things, until I nod, “That looks good.”

             “Really? _The Conjuring?_ You want to watch a horror film?” Connor wrinkles his nose, raises an eyebrow.

_Whoops._

            “Oh. Um, we don’t have to. I mean, it’s whatever, we can do whatever...” I trail off, unable to tell him that the last scary movie I saw was in high school, it wasn’t actually that scary, and I still regretted watching it for days.

            “No,” Connor’s smile is mischievous, his eyes bright, “We can watch whatever you want.”

             “Okay.” I settle back on my side into the sofa uneasily, and Connor sits on the other far end.

            It begins with spooky brass music, emulating screaming, and a cloudy night sky. I don’t know what happens next, because I spend the remainder of the beginning alternating between covering my eyes and ears.

             At some point in the middle, Connor looks over at me. I’m curled up in the fetal position with my knees tucked up to my chest, hands clamped over my eyes, thumbs in my ears.

            “Buddy...,” Connor’s laugh is a welcome change to the creaking and screaming on the screen. He picks up the remote and flicks out of the movie, back to the innocuous homepage.

            “Sorry,” I blush, planting my feet back on the floor, “I um, I’m not really—”

            “You’re fine. We should probably figure out what we want to do for dinner, anyway. We could order pizza? Or Chinese? I think there’s a good place that delivers around here.” Connor opens his phone, scrolling.

            I nod. My stomach is still churning from the movie, but it’s getting late, “Pizza is good.”

           Connor smiles, “Pizza it is.”

            He places the order, and we wait, this time watching a comedy show. Connor’s laugh is one of the loveliest sounds I’ve ever heard, bright and vibrant and full, and I’m almost sorry when the pizza arrives.

            The box is warm when I lift the lid. Cheese pulls and threads as I wiggle out a slice, Connor following. The paper plates bend under the weight of the pizza, speckled with orange grease stains. Connor peeks out the window, pulling back the curtain to reveal the snow coming down heavier and faster, white against the night.

            I’m mid-bite when Connor sighs. “Kev, would you maybe be okay sleeping here?”

            I nod slowly. I don’t know why he’s asking exactly, but Connor smiles, a lopsided grin, relieved, “Thanks. I’m okay with driving, but I’d rather not to with this kind of snow. I checked the weather and the ground was cold enough for this is get really icy, really fast.”

            I nod again, this time more easily. Circumstances might have called for it, but he still asked me to stay. He wanted me to stay.

 

            We watch the rest of the comedy show before watching another. As the credits roll, Connor begins to yawn, covering his mouth with an open palm.

            “I think I might have to call it a night,” he’s flicks the remote, switching out Netflix.

             I nod, but don’t ask any of the questions I’d been wondering for the past few hours. _Where am I supposed to sleep? What am I supposed to wear? What am I supposed to tell Gideon?_

            Gideon. I haven’t even told him I was going out tonight. I figured I’d be back, and would just tell him I was studying. But if I don’t come back...I pick up my phone, thankful to not see any notifications. I open my messages, type up a text, _Visiting a friend’s house when it started snowing, won’t be back tonight,_ and send it. It’s specific enough to keep him from worrying, vague enough he wouldn’t be suspicious.

            “So...I’ve only got one bed. I think it would be big enough for both of us, but if you don’t want that, I think I might have some extra blankets for the couch somewhere...” Connor calls from his room. I can hear him rummaging through his closet, pulling down boxes.

            “Um...it’s fine, whatever,” I was sleepy earlier, but I’m suddenly wide awake. I know Connor wouldn’t do anything, that we’d be fine sharing a bed. I quell the voice telling me that this is a bad idea, that we shouldn’t do this, that this is the first step to sinning. Try to not think about the look of utter and unadulterated disgust on Dad’s face if he knew, Mom’s sheer disappointment. Nothing is going to happen between us, not tonight; everything is going to be fine. I’m fine. We’re fine. And wouldn’t it be nice to feel that electricity, his warm hand in mine, drawn together like opposite sides of a magnet? Shouldn’t something that feels so natural, so intuitive, so easy, be okay?

            Connor comes back to the living room, his face flushed, frantic, “Kev, I’m so sorry, I looked, and I can’t find any of my extra blankets. I guess I left them at home or something. I don’t know where they are and—”

            “It’s okay.” I smile, get up, walk into his room, and sit down at the foot of the bed on the side against the wall. “We’re okay.”

            Relieved, Connor grabs his pajamas and goes into the bathroom. I notice he left a t-shirt and sweatpants for me on the bed. I slip off my shoes and change. The inside is pilled and worn, but they feel familiar, and the t-shirt smells like him.

            When Connor returns, he sits on the far edge of the bed, turning off the light, pulling back the blanket, careful not to bump into me.

            “Goodnight,” the sound is muffled, and as he’s tossing and turning, the bedspring creaking, I whisper it back into the dark, “Night.”

 

            I don’t remember falling asleep, but I’m woken by the light streaming in through the space between the slats of the shades. Connor is still sleeping, sprawled out like Superman, breathing in soft, even snores.

            The bed squeaks when I move, but I manage to tiptoe out of the room, getting my clothes from where I left them, hung over the chair by the door.

            After changing, I splash some water on my face, using my fingers to brush through my hair, and sit in the living room, scrolling through my phone. It’s almost out of battery, but not quite yet. Other than a few school-sanctioned emails, I don’t have very much to attend to. It doesn’t matter, though, because I can hear Connor stirring from his room. He appears, minutes later, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his plaid pajama pants riding just a little too low.

             “What time is it?” His voice is raspy, a little slurred.

             “8:27,” I flick my phone screen off.

            “Ew.” Connor stumbles over to the portable counter that houses his coffee-maker, pulling a mug from the open shelves.

            With a hot cup of fresh coffee, he’s slightly more alert, more human. Steam rises in curls from the surface.

            “You know, you talk in your sleep,” Connor laughs, taking a long sip, both hands wrapped around the mug.

            “I do?” I’d been told I have by Danny and Jack during camping trips, but they never elaborated very much. “What’d I say?”

            Connor shrugged, “I couldn’t make it out.”

            I had a dream last night, not that I would tell him about it. He was there, and I was running through a field, when I reached a vacant shooting range. He followed me, and we were suddenly encircled by target signs, the targets turning to fire, shooting up around us. People with guns appeared from behind the targets, their weapons poised to fire. _Sinners repent!_ Connor cowered, and I stood there, frozen. Not protecting, not defending, not recanting. Just standing. Watching. A gunshot went off, smoking, and I woke, disoriented, sweaty. In the dark, I heard Connor’s even soughing, felt him next to me. 

_It was just a dream._

            I smile, “I don’t know.”


	6. Chapter 6

             Connor’s birthday is during finals week.  I discover this when I get a text Saturday morning, seemingly out of nowhere: _Do you want to come over for a birthday dinner on the 10 th?_

 _Whose birthday?_ I asked.

 _Mine, haha._ I could almost hear Connor’s laugh, bubbling through the phone screen.

            I walk to the school bookstore, scouring the sparse greeting card section. Anniversary, Baby, Birthday. _Blessings on your birthday?_ I put the card back, sighing.  The only non-religious birthday card is vague, _I hope you have a wonderful day, Friend_ but it’ll have to do. I pay and leave, wondering what I could possibly give him.

            Back in my dorm room, I search online for a gift. Something fun. Something useful. Something not too expensive. What does Connor even like? He likes coffee. Is a coffee mug too generic? The mug selection isn’t bad; I keep scrolling until I find one, one with a snowflake. That seems appropriate, maybe. The first time I ever slept over was because it snowed. Was that weird to give him something that references nothing? It wasn’t nothing, exactly, but it wasn’t anything, either.

            I sigh, adding it to my cart, paying.

            I receive the confirmation email minutes later. _We’re sorry, but your item has been backordered._

            Groaning, I close out of my emails, try to figure out if there’s anything else I could do. I could just give it to him after his birthday. That’s a thing, right? It’s not like I haven’t gotten him anything. It’s just _backordered_.

            I don’t have a lot of time to mull over this, though, because Gideon returns, his face flushed, eyes bright. I sense something dangerous in him, and stay where I’m seated at my desk, backing my chair up so it touches the wall, my knees protectively drawn in front of my chest.

            “Kev, we need to talk,” He isn’t smiling like he normally is.

            “About what?” I speak slowly, cautiously, hating how high my voice has become. I have a feeling I know what this is about, but it’s been a _week_ since I stayed over at Connor’s, a month since Connor’s roommate freaked out. Gideon had so many chances to ask between now and then, to talk to me about it, and he didn’t. Why is he choosing now? What happened?

            “Are the rumors true?” He looks less out of control, wielding and spinning. For a second, I see a little kid, masquerading as an adult, his eyes wide and pleading.

_Just say no. Deny it. Don’t let it be true._

_Don’t incriminate yourself._

            “What rumors?” I’m surprised by how calm I sound, how composed, the dichotomy between my racing pulse and still, quiet voice.

            “You. You and Connor.” He sounds desperate. He doesn’t want the rumors to be true, whatever the rumors are, he doesn’t want to punish me. He can’t not do something if he’s right, if I admit to him being right, but he doesn’t want to.

            “No.” I say it much more firmly than I feel, dizzy and suffocated, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            Gideon looks relieved, finally offering a tiny smile, accepting my words at face value, “Okay.”

 

            Connor texts me the afternoon of his birthday, _You ready?_

            I send a thumbs up in reply. I’m alone in the room, Gideon is out with some friends.

_Be there in 10._

            I grab Connor’s card, buried in the bottom of my desk, and sign it _Happy birthday! b_ efore hesitating. _Love, Kevin_? _Sincerely, Kevin_? _All the best, Kevin_? I settle for _–Kevin_. Shoving it into my backpack, I pack my toothbrush and toothpaste from my bath caddy, _just in case_ , winding my scarf around my neck, slipping on my jacket.

            I run into Gideon in the lobby of the dorm, but he just smiles, waves, keeps walking. He isn’t suspicious, but I half-expect him to confront me, any day, now. My heart always beats a little faster, my breathing a little heavier, my face flushing, whenever he looks at me, his mouth half-open like he’s about to speak. _Kevin, you lied. Kevin, you’re sinning. Kevin, we can’t be roommates._ But he’s done none of the above. He smiled. He waved. And then he left, not a worry to be had.

            Connor is already waiting in his car, when I reach the door. I swing the passenger door open, quickly climbing in, and we drive away, just a little faster than we would if we weren’t together.

            The radio is turned to an oldies station, the song swingy and mellow. Connor hums along, softly, his voice blending perfectly with the music. He glances over at me during a stop-light, and my face reddens. I can’t sing. Or rather, I don’t sing. I can, technically. I used to sing more, but I haven’t in a while. My voice always sounded so squeaky, screechy, nasally.

            “James called and said he has the flu. And Lex went home this weekend. Chrissy wanted to come, but she has a huge final tomorrow, like 32% of her grade or something. So it’s just us.”

            I nod. I hadn’t been told how big a dinner this was supposed to be. I half expected there to be more people than just the three he listed, but they’re probably the ones I’ve seen him he eating lunch with, the ones he feels safe enough to bring me around.

            “You’re cool with that?” I hear just the slightest break in his voice, almost imperceptible, the question lingering mid-air.

            “Yeah, that sounds good,” I affirm. Before I can stop myself, I reach out, rest my hand lightly on his knee. He keeps his left hand on the wheel but drops his right, meeting mine in the center. Folded together, our fingers interlocked, they feel like they did the night of the Halloween party, perfectly matched, impossible to tell where one started and the other ended.

 

            The restaurant is almost empty, save for an elderly couple and a family with a screaming baby, an overactive toddler, and four tired-looking children.

           “This way,” the hostess passes the tables, seating us in a corner in the back. I’m not sure why, with all the open seats, but neither of us protest.

            We sit across from each other, our feet touching under the table. I pull my feet back under the chair, but now my knees are protruding out, bumping his. We shift until we can find a position where we’re not hitting into each other, staring at the menu. I’m glad I left his birthday card in the car – there’d be virtually nowhere to set it had I brought it in.

             “Eggplant parmigiana looks good,” Connor studies the menu, squinting slightly. “Or chicken piccata.” He pauses, scanning the menu. “Actually, that lava cake look _really_ good.”

             I try and fail to keep a neutral expression. I don't like chocolate. It was never a problem, before – Megan had always happily taken my serving of brownies or cake. I didn’t usually tell people, just because how _strange_ an aversion it was, and I was able to avoid it for 19 years until tonight, when Connor would probably order it for dessert and I’d have to explain myself. I can already imagine the smell, heavy and overpowering, wafting up from the plate at our too-small table.

            “Kev, you okay?” Connor cocks his head to the side, eyebrows raised.

            “Oh. Uh, yeah. Just can’t decide,” I laugh, my face relaxing from what I can only assume was a look of disgust.

            Connor doesn’t further investigate. We order our meals and they arrive, garnished with a spring of parsley. My spaghetti is well-cooked, but not overdone, and on top is the biggest meatball I’ve ever seen, roughly the size of my fist. Connor ended up getting lasagna, the ricotta cheese layered with meat sauce and pasta.

            When the waitress returns, she asks if we’d like dessert. Connor glances at me, and I shrug, before he orders the lava cake. The gooey, hot brownie, covered in chocolate sauce, with hot fudge exploding from the middle.

            I don’t say anything - it’s his birthday - but when it arrives, I can’t help my wrinkle my nose, backing my chair away a little.

            Connor doesn’t notice, offering me a fork, and I accept, but I can’t bring myself to actually reach out, take a bite. The smell alone is overwhelming, somehow bitter and sickeningly sweet at the same time.

            “Kev, don’t you want some?” Connor nudges the plate in my direction. It’s half-gone, the syrup smudged across the plate.

            “No, I’m okay,” I set the fork down, “I’m good, really.”

            Connor shrugs lightly, “More for me, I guess.”

 

            We drive back to Connor’s apartment, and I bring in my backpack with his card. I checked my mail every day in case the coffee mug arrived, but it was still backordered until after the new year.

            “So, you’re not a brownie fan?” Connor falls back into the sofa.

            I shake my head, shrug.  _Not a fan_ is an understatement, but I don’t want him to think I’m being dramatic, “Not really.”

            “What do you like?” Connor hugs a throw pillow, folding and crossing his legs.

            “Fruity things, I guess. Apple pie, cherry pie.” I think about Mom’s pies, how she’d make them every holiday with the seasonal fruit.

            “Huh.” A smile eases its way from Connor’s mouth to his eyes, spreading like wildfire.

            “Anyway, so I got you something. I actually got you a gift, too, but it was backordered.” I reach into my backpack, pull out the card. It suddenly feels so impersonal, so wrong, but it’s too late to do anything about it.

            “Aww,” Connor’s smile widens. He takes the card, reads it, chuckling to himself.

            _What’s so funny?_

“Thanks,” Connor puts the card back into the envelope, leaves it on the coffee table. “So, I got you a little something, too. A Christmas gift.” I hadn’t noticed the wrapped gift sitting on the bookshelf until now, but Connor reaches up, takes it, handing it to me.

            I open the box to find a small, empty, wooden frame.  A slip of paper filled with words falls out, the handwriting crammed together so it would all fit. I tuck it in my pocket so I don't lose it, silently reminding myself to read it later.

            “Thank you,” I say, even though I don’t completely understand his gift.

            “It-it’s just a picture frame. If you wanted, we could take one together. But you can put whatever—” Connor speaks quickly, rushing, like he's afraid of how I might respond.

            “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” I smile, reach into my back pocket for my phone, “Here.”

            Connor wraps his arm around me, and I hold the phone out, taking several shots.  Leaning over my shoulder, just a little too close, Connor watches me tap into my photos, check our selfies.

            “That one’s good,” Connor points to the last, his laugh light and bubbly, reminding me of seltzer, "It's a keeper."

           

            I don’t go back to my dorm that night. It’ll be a whole month before we see each other again, and I don’t want to leave Connor alone on his birthday, even after the clock strikes twelve and it’s no longer his birthday.  Curled up on my side facing Connor, my back to the wall, I hear him reach his hand out. I take it, our fingers polar opposites of a magnet: when in close proximity, finding their way in the dark, always pulled by an invisible force until they’re laced together once more.


	7. Chapter 7

            When Megan and I arrive home on the last day of Finals, Danny and Claire’s car is already pulled into the driveway. Danny married Claire two years ago, after they graduated college. She’s never been much of a fan of me, I don’t think, but she dislikes Megan more, preferring to ignore her entirely. Once, Megan said she was glad Claire didn’t really pay much attention to her, but her voice cracked a little when she said it, her hand automatically grazing her mouth.

            When we step in the door, Mom is sitting at the kitchen table with Danny and Claire. They stop talking mid-sentence, pause, and smile, like they’ve choreographed it.

            “Danny and Claire have some big news,” Mom turns to Danny, who bounds out of his chair, unable to contain himself for a moment longer, “We’re pregnant!”

            Claire stands up from behind the table, revealing a rounded stomach, accentuated by her high-waisted maternity blouse.

            Megan, smiles, and goes to hug Claire, who uncharacteristically, graciously accepts. It must be the pregnancy hormones, the maternal instinct, because she doesn’t flinch away like a startled rabbit as soon as Megan wraps her arms around her. I stay where I am, and glance over at Danny, who is absolutely beaming. He winks at me.

            “Do Dad and Jack know?” Megan asks Claire and Danny, although she directs the question at Mom.

            Danny nods, “Yeah. We told Mom and Dad right away.” He pulls Claire close, his arm resting on her shoulder. “It’s a boy, he’s doing great, we just got back from our 20-week ultrasound. Due the first week of May, just in time for Baseball.”

            He’s so excited, I don’t have the heart to remind him that I was born in May and I’ve never once enjoyed Baseball.

 

            With the busyness of finals, I never had a chance to read Connor’s note. I find it tucked away in the pocket of my backpack, where I’d moved it after I’d thrown my jeans in the laundry. The note is a little wrinkled, but safe.

_Kevin – I’m so glad we’ve become friends, though I hope that someday, we can maybe be more than that. But if not, I want you to know how much you mean to me. You’re so kind, and I’m so very grateful we’ve gotten to know each other better. You make me a better person, and I consider myself so very lucky to be able to consider myself your friend. Most sincerely, Connor._

            I groan, remembering what I’d written in Connor’s card. _Happy birthday! –Kevin._ And then he writes something like this, something heartfelt and eloquent.

            No wonder he laughed when he read my card.

            I find the frame in my luggage, the black-and-white photo of Connor and I inside. Connor had printed it for me the morning after his birthday, his printer spitting out the photo onto his desk in his living room. We didn’t talk about why. We didn’t need to.

            I put the frame in my closet, unable to bring myself to bury it in the back, but knowing it needed to stay out of view. Tucking the note behind the frame, I close the closet doors.

 

            Christmas comes and goes without much fanfare. We go to church, have dinner, go to more church. Jack sings in the choir, even though I know he doesn’t want to, not that he’d tell Mom and Dad. I’m relieved they don’t expect me to, although I suspect Megan is the opposite, the way she watches them from our pew, their hands folded, mouths moving in synchrony.

 

             A few days later, I notice that my dress shirt I’d worn to Church has been washed and ironed, hung in front of my closet. Even though I’m old enough to do all my own laundry, Mom must’ve thought I needed some help. I go to hang it back up in the closet when I notice my framed photo missing, and the note that was behind it. I feel a lump rising in my throat, my neck prickly, palms sweaty. _Did Mom find it? Did she take it?_

            I scan the floor of the closet, but they’re not there. Closing the doors, I head over to Megan’s room, the door ajar.

            “Meg?” I struggle to keep my voice even, low.

            “Yeah?” She opens the door all the way, and I stand in the middle of her room, helpless.

            “This is so weird, I don’t even know why you’d know, but did you see a photo frame recently?” I laugh, the sound garbled in the back of my throat.

            “Why?” She regards me carefully, slowly shaking her head.

            “It’s missing. It was in my closet, and it’s missing.”

            “What was it of?”

            “Um, it was—it was of me...and Connor.” _Looking very friendly._ If the photo wasn’t incriminating enough, there was the note. A note that said _I hope that someday, we can maybe be more than that._

_More than friends._

             “Oh. Did you check the floor? Could it have fallen?”

             “Yeah. I did. I think maybe Mom might’ve gone into my closet, Meg. There was a clean shirt there, but it wasn’t inside the closet.” I bounce on my toes a little, nerves and energy with nowhere to go.

            Megan looks like she wants to say something, her mouth slightly open, but she pinches her lips together.

            “What?” I glance behind me, around me.

            “Kev...” She sighs heavily, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, “I think...I think Mom might have it. Your picture.”

            “What?” I begin to hyperventilate. I hadn’t allowed myself to fully panic until now.

            “It’s just...last night. She didn’t show me or anything, but she started asking a lot of weird questions. How you were doing at BYU, who you’ve been hanging out with. I swear, I didn’t tell her anything, but I had to tell her _something._ ” Megan’s eyes are watery, and her voice shakes, “I’m sorry, Kevin, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know what to say!”

             I shake my head, _You tried_ , my breathing erratic, wild.

            A weak “Okay,” is all I can muster.

 

            I’m reading in my bed when I hear a knock on the door. It’s almost welcome, after having spent the entirety of the day jumping at every little noise, every time I heard Mom or Dad speak. But in the moment I hear my mother call my name from the other side of the door, my heart stops a little, and I forget how to breathe.

            “Yeah,” I reply faintly. I clear my throat, “Yeah.”

            “Hi, Sweetie.” Mom sits down on my bed, smoothing my covers. In her hand is the photo. I can see the note tucked into the space between the glass of the frame and the frame itself.

            “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Her voice is gentle.

            I shrug, unable to look at her.

            “I-I found this. And I was wondering...if you could just talk to me a little.”

            I shrug, again, forcing myself to look up. Her forehead is creased with lines, her eyes wide.

            “I haven’t talked to your father, yet. I think we need to, but I wanted to speak to you, first, alone.”

            I nod. She moves as if to put her hand on my shoulder, but draws it away.

            “You’ve been so distant lately, and I wonder if maybe this is why.” She gestures at the photo, pulling the note from the frame, looking into Connor’s and my faces, almost wistful, “You look so happy here. I haven’t seen you look this happy in months.”

            “It’s just a picture.”

            “But this note.”

            I sigh. There's nothing I can say, nothing that can change what she must suspect.

            “Kevin, you know your father and I love you?” I look up to see her eyebrows raised, head ever-so-slightly cocked to the side. She’s unsure of my answer, perhaps afraid I’d say ‘No’.

            I nod, her face instantly relaxing. 

            “Come on. Let’s go talk to him and straighten this whole thing out.” She leads me out of the room, and I follow her like a lamb to a slaughter, my stomach twisting itself inside out and backwards.

 

            Dad is sitting in front of the television when Mom goes to speak to him. I can’t hear what she says, but he grunts, stands up slowly, shuffling to the kitchen table.

            Mom places the photo frame on the table, but doesn’t add the note. I feel her slide her hand to me under the table, the paper in her fingertips. I take it, closing my fist around it.

            “So, what’s going on?” Dad’s voice is deep, but I note an edge I’ve never heard before, concern. I realize this is the first time we’ve ever had a family meeting, just the three of us, where I’m the subject.

            “Kevin, would you like to tell your father?” It’s not a request, it’s a command.

            I freeze. I can’t speak. My mouth won’t open, my vocal cords like broken violin strings, limp and unable to vibrate or move.

            Mom watches, and then in a moment of mercy, speaks for me, “Here.”

            She slides the photo frame in front of my father, who adjusts his reading glasses, studies the picture. Connor’s arm around my shoulder, me sitting just a little too close, nestled against him. We look comfortable, like an old married couple.

            “What’s this, Boy?” Dad searches my face for an answer, but when I have none, he sighs, clarifies, “Who’s this?”

            “Connor.” I whisper, my voice raspy.

            “You’ve been seeing a lot of this Connor?” Dad’s voice is expectant, like there’s a right and wrong answer.

             I don’t speak, I don’t move. I can’t even look up.

            “I don’t know,” I mumble.

            The room is silent for a moment, even though it feels like eternity. Dad breaks the silence, “We want to help you, but we need to know what’s going on.”

            I feel Mom’s gaze fall on me, and I shrink, “Nothing happened.”

_Just a kiss. One kiss. Nothing else happened. I never let anything else happen._

            Dad emits a low whistle, “Boy, this doesn’t look like ‘Nothing’.”

            I’m quiet, staring into my lap. I twist a hangnail on my thumb.

_Just say it. Say the words. Say it and it’ll be over. They won’t ask any more questions. They won’t have anything left to say. They won’t have anything left to wonder._

_There will be all new questions, though. All new things to say. All new things to wonder. And it probably won’t be good._

            I breathe, try not to pay attention to my heart racing, the fullness in my throat. I blink, pinching my eyes closed.

_Just two syllables. Just say the two syllables._

            “I’m gay.”

            When I open my eyes, they’re still there. To my surprise, the world doesn’t close in or combust or explode. The world doesn’t even stop. Mom and Dad sit across from me, dumbfounded, speechless. To see the photo is one thing, to hear me say it is another.

            Mom reaches her hand out, “Oh, Sweetie,” while Dad sighs, “Heavenly Father...” They share a glance with each other, telepathic, and Dad speaks, composed again, “Your mother and I are going to talk, now. We’ll figure this all out.”

            And with those words, I’m dismissed.

 

            I sit on the stairs. I try to quiet my breathing, but it’s ragged, almost dog-like, feral and out-of-control.

            I can hear them, whisper-yelling in the kitchen, hissing, hashing it out.

            “Frank, he’s in college, he’s taking classes, you can’t just send him away!”

_Send me away?_

            “Liza, the boy needs help.”

            “No. We’re not doing that. We can’t. He needs to finish school.”

            There’s a pause, a moment of silence.

            A sigh.

            “We need to help him.” Dad’s voice is broken, “There are people, people who can—”

            “Not by doing that.” My mother is suddenly a lion. I’ve never heard her disagree with Dad, put up a fight. But she says it so matter-of-factly, so indisputably.

            Another pause. Someone inhales sharply, drawing in the air as if it were running out.

            “I-I don’t know what to do. I don’t. I’m sorry.” I can imagine him throwing up his hands, _I give up._

            “We can keep him here, at home, until the end of break. He’ll go back to school, and we can get him into a program in the summer. But he can’t drop out of college mid-year.” Mom’s voice is firm.

            And then silence. End of discussion. I can hear them shuffling around the kitchen, and I dart back into my room, Connor’s crumpled note still wedged in my closed fist.

 

            Before Connor, I was never going to say anything to anyone. I never wanted to, there was no reason to. I thought I could live out my life, wife-less and alone, until I died at a ripe old age. But Connor happened. He swooped in and changed everything and then that picture. God, that picture.  Mom is right, we do look happy. Connor’s eyes are glinting and though I’m more restrained, I'm smiling widely, the corners of my eyes creased. We grin like we have a secret, two boys with a shared confidence. I feel a dull ache in my chest, a longing for something that would never be able to happen. And then guilt, washing over me like a flood, a tsunami, for wanting it in the first place.

            So what if I have to live out the rest of my life as a bachelor? Mom and Dad might be disappointed they aren’t getting any grandchildren from me, but Danny and Claire seem more than happy to oblige, and I’m certain Megan and Jack would too, when the time comes.  No, they don’t need me to provide grandchildren, they’ll have plenty.

            They don’t really need me at all.

 

            Christmas Break can’t end soon enough.

            I finish packing my things the night before, double and triple checking, just to ensure I haven’t forgotten anything, giving me no reason to return until the next break.

            Dad knocks on my door, even though it’s open, and sits down in my desk chair.

            “Looks like you’re all ready to go.”

            I nod, stop folding clothing. I don’t move out from behind my open duffle bag.

            “Your mother and I, we talked about it. And we decided it was best for you to finish out the school year.”

            I wait. He crosses his arms, gnawing on his lower lip.

            “Once summer starts, we found a nice clinic for you, out in the mountains. It’s immersive. We’ll take you there, and you can get help. There are people there who can help.”

            I say nothing.

 _They’re sending me away. They’re getting rid of me_.

            After Beck came back from therapy, he wasn’t the same. He was quieter, his large frame somehow much smaller, like they threw him in the dryer until he shrank. He stopped raising his hand and would lay his head down on his desk in class.  He eventually stopped going to class altogether. Later, over the morning announcements, we were told he died. Nobody specified why. We all knew how.

            Dad takes my silence as agreement.

            “Don’t worry. We can fix you, Boy.”


	8. Chapter 8

_We are like islands in the sea, separate on the surface but connected in the deep._

_~William James_

 

**Part II – Spring**

            The second half of freshman English is rather unenlightening, except for Professor Tom Fletcher, who enters the first day looking less like a scholar and more like one of my father’s golfing buddies.  He wears khakis and a pin-striped button-down, but his shirt sleeves are rolled up and his top button is open. He does not wear a tie. When I look down, I notice his socks have reindeer printed on them. He has us move our desks in a circle to facilitate discussion, clarifying that this is a _safe space_ to share our thoughts and ideas.      

            In the first three weeks back, Mom leaves three voicemails, one a week.

            _Hi, Sweetie, just checking to see how you’re doing...okay, I’ll talk to you soon, I love you._

_Hi, Kevin, it’s your mother. How are you? Anyway, I hope things are going well. Love you, talk to you soon._

_Hi, I haven’t heard from you in a while. It’s been really busy around here...I guess you’re pretty busy, too. Please call back. Love you._

            I don’t call back, but I don’t delete them, either.

 

            With Valentine’s Day rapidly approaching, I’m unsure what to do. Everyone is going out, either as a group or with their girlfriend. Connor suggests going to his apartment, which isn’t a bad idea, but I haven’t told him about what happened at Christmas. When he asked what I did over break, I’d shrugged, tossed the question back at him.  I’d told myself it was because I was trying to spare him the drama, but now I think it was mostly because I just couldn’t bring myself to relive it, burden him. It’s been a month. I’ve waited too long. Telling him now would be cruel and unusual punishment for both of us.  But when he sticks his lower lip out a little when he asks me to come over, spend Valentine’s Day with him, I can’t say no.

 

            His apartment is warm compared to the bitter winter wind outside. I slip off my coat, more comfortable in his space than I used to be, and sit down on the coach. I can smell something baking, sweet and aromatic. I pull a small box of chocolate out of my backpack, along with his belated birthday gift.

            “Aww,” Connor’s smile spreads from his mouth to his eyes, his cheeks round and pink. “I was gonna get you chocolate, too, but then I found out you hated it, so I made you pie.” He jumps up and moments later, appears with a slice of pie. The lattice crust is golden, the cherry filling steamy and soft. 

            “Hope it’s edible!” He laughs, the sound hearty and sincere, bubbling and overflowing.

             He opens the gift, sees the snowflake on the side of the mug. I'm not sure he understands, but he holds it close, protectively, "I love it."

 

            I stay at Connor’s apartment that weekend. It’s Friday, and Gideon has become accustomed to my leaving. He doesn’t ask questions and I don’t volunteer information. By Saturday, Connor has stopped asking, telling me that if I want or need to go back to my dorm, to just tell him. I don’t say anything about going back.

            On Monday morning, President’s Day, I receive a phone call from Megan. Connor is working at his desk in the living room when I duck into his–our—bedroom.

            “Hello?” I hold the phone up to my ear.

            “Kevin? Kevin?” Her voice is reedy, cracking.

            “What’s wrong? What’s going on?” I feel my stomach flip.

_This is it. They’ve changed their minds. I’m going back. I’m dropping out of college and going to the therapy clinic in the mountains and I’m probably never getting out._

            “It’s Dad, Kev. Dad-he-he...” Megan cries into the phone, gasping for air. I can barely make out what she’s saying.

            “Sorry, I-I can’t really understand—,” I begin, but Megan cuts me off.

            “Dad had a heart—a heart thing. A Sudden Cardiac Arrest.”

            “When?” I hear myself ask.

            “Last night,” Megan inhales sharply, “Mom called early this morning.”

            “Is he okay? Do we need to visit him in the hospital?” I think of the hospital, the sterile, white environment, smelling like anti-bacterial soap and citrus floor cleaner.

            “Kev-in-in,” Megan is hiccupping, a fresh burst of tears. I have to strain to hear her when she’s able to speak again, “He died.”

_Isn’t a Sudden Cardiac Arrest a Heart Attack? Didn’t people recover from those all the time?_

            I sink down onto the bed, still unmade from when we woke earlier.

            “M-mom will call later, but you-you needed to know,” Megan exhales, her breathing ragged.

            “Okay.” My voice is stable and deep, “Talk to you later.”

             When Megan hangs up, I sit for a moment, frozen on the bed. And then I stand, walking out to the living room where Connor is. He’s typing on his computer, referencing his notes.

            “Connor?” My voice is suddenly small, no longer calm. I’m shaking, and I sit down on the couch, curled up with my knees drawn to my chest.

            “He died.” It comes out flat, running headlong into nothingness. I’m a shell, a ghost. I watch my head fall limply into my knees.

            “What?” Connor stands from his desk, moves to sit beside me. I feel the couch cushion shift under his weight.

            “He died. A-a sudden cardiac arrest...?” My voice tips up at the end, curling, fluctuating. The pressure in my throat explodes, tears running down my cheeks. I swipe them away with the backs of my hands, my breathing uneven and ragged.

            “Who?” Connor’s voice is soft. I feel him put his hand on my shoulder.

            “My dad,” I exhale in a single breath, monosyllabic.

            “I’m sorry,” Connor whispers, but I can’t respond. I sink, further into my knees, until I am surrounded in darkness.

            And Connor, all he can do is sit there, next to me, in silence.

 

            Megan drives home without me. She notifies her professors, and they are kind, giving her their sympathies, their prayers. I can’t tell Gideon or any of my professors. I don’t miss class, I resume business as usual, taking notes, turning in my assignments. Connor watches, his lips pressed tightly together, his brow furrowed, but doesn’t say anything.

 

            I stay over at Connor’s mid-week. I can’t stand to be alone for another day. I’m never alone in the room, but it feels isolated, more like a holding cell than a bedroom, with Gideon as the warden. _Where are you going? What are you doing?_ Connor has become overly acquiescent, overly accommodating. He doesn’t ask too many questions, but he’s tiptoeing around me like I’m volatile, explosive. And maybe he’s right.

            The funeral is slated for this weekend. When I first wake up, since I’ve gotten the phone call, there is the briefest moment when I don’t remember. And then I do.

            I go to bed, feeling like I’m suffocating, even with Connor’s warm, steady breathing beside me. I listen for a few minutes, but when he’s not snoring, I know he’s awake.         

            “He died hating me.” My voice cuts through the silence in the darkness, sudden and abrupt. I'd never recounted what happened at Christmas, not to anyone, not even Connor. Especially not Connor. He rolls over on his side so he’s facing me, his forehead almost touching mine, knees bent, arm cradled around his head.  He says nothing. From the streetlights cast through the window, I can see his eyes flickering, back and forth, between mine, reading my face for an explanation, an elaboration.

            “You know what the last thing he said was? ‘We can fix you, Boy.’ What the hell? I mean, I’m not a car in a body shop. He made me sound broken, something that needed to be fixed. Why.” I exhale, a raspy, shallow breath. I’m not asking why, but maybe Connor has an answer. Our noses almost touch; I can feel his heartbeat.

            “He was trying to do what he thought was best.” Connor offers what little solace is left, tries to answer the rhetorical why.

            “Well, it wasn’t good enough.” I slam my head back down onto the pillow harder than I intend, “...I wasn’t good enough.” The words settle, tired, defeated.

            Connor reaches up to touch my hand, hold it, lace his fingers through mine, but I yank it away, burying it under the pillow.

            “Did he think I _chose_ this? That I wanted it? Because I didn’t. Trust me, I didn’t,” I laugh, guttural and rough, my voice growing more frantic, the words strung more closely together, “Who would _choose_ this? I mean, if I could carve this out, I would. I would in a _second_ , I would take a magic pill or even a knife, if I thought it was gonna help make this go away. I would carve out every last part of this, until there was nothing left, I’d even go a little extra, just to make sure, in case it could contaminate, until I stopped feeling like this. I wouldn’t ever have to feel like this again, and he wouldn’t have to die hating me, and everything would be the way it’s supposed to. I could just move on! But there are no fucking magic knives, or pills, or—,” my voice hitches, and I’m crying, silently, my hand clamped over my mouth, shoulders heaving.  We’re close in proximity, but I feel miles away; I don’t know how to reach him, how to get back. Connor touches my shoulder lightly, carefully, and I twitch, startled, but I don’t shake him off. He gently pries my hand from my mouth, holding it tightly, wrapping it in his warmth, and the sound that escapes is grating, feral, not coming from my throat but somewhere deeper, as if the very pit of my stomach were convulsing, gasping for air.

            Connor lies there, not saying anything, until my breathing eventually steadies, slowing into deep, even snores.


	9. Chapter 9

            We’re to visit Professor Fletcher during office hours to discuss our most recent paper. I sign up for a time-slot in class for later this afternoon, the earliest I can, and pass the paper to the girl next to me. She smiles, takes it, sends it around the circle.

           

            I knock on Professor Fletcher’s open door. He has posters littering every square inch of the small office’s white walls.  A faded oriental rug is on the floor, a few framed pictures on his desk of a little boy grinning, missing his top two teeth; a man, standing on top of a mountain, who I can only assume was Fletcher about 30 years ago.

            “Kevin, come in,” he waves, sitting up a little straighter. His desk chair protests, squeaking.

            “Guess I need to oil the hinges,” Fletcher pokes the chair a little, laughs.

            _Aren’t we supposed to be discussing the paper?_

            “Anyway.” Fletcher rifles through the piles of papers on his desk, “Aha. Okay. Your writing is good. Very good, Kevin.”

            I wait. This is the sort of thing that prefaces _but...it’s too short. Too long. Not enough arguments. Too many arguments. Sloppy grammar, careless editing, bad, worse, worst._

Fletcher reads his messy scrawl in the margins of the page, “Truly, Kevin. I don’t have very much to say about it. Keep up the good work.” He holds out the paper. At the top, I can see my grade, circled in red pen: _98/100._

I flip through, see a few suggestions about tightening sentences, strengthening paragraphs.

            “Thanks.” I press my lips together, turn up the corners of my mouth.

            Fletcher watches me tuck my paper into my backpack, hoist my bag over my shoulder, but returns his attention to his laptop.

            I’m missing class on Friday. I don’t have a choice about that. I’d talked to Mom earlier today about the funeral plans. The funeral was going to be over the weekend, but it had gotten moved to Friday after relatives had decided that would be more convenient for traveling.

            Just tell him. Just say it. It’s not a big deal. Students miss class all the time. And Fletcher is nice. He wouldn’t mind.

            “Um, Professor Fletcher?” He looks up from his computer.

            “Yes, Kevin?” He cocks his head to the side, closing his laptop. I shift my weight on my feet, gripping my backpack straps for support, an anchor.

            “Um, I just—I just wanted to let you know, I’m not going to be in class on Friday. I have a funeral.”

            “I’m sorry to hear that.” Fletcher pinches his eyebrows together, “If it’s not...overstepping, may I ask for whom?”

            “Who? Oh, um, my-my dad.” I stutter, stare at the ground. The words cling, clutter, dissipate.

            Fletcher gazes at me, running a hand through his hair, “Well, your family is in my thoughts and prayers.” He pauses, “I don’t want to make you talk about it, but you can, if you need to. I know it must be a very difficult thing for you and your folks.”

            I shake my head violently. _What’s there left to say? I said a lot of things to Connor the other night. Dad is gone. And Mom...I don’t even know. I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I don’t even know who I am. It all started because I didn’t want to be alone, anymore, because I met Connor, and yet here I am. Alone. I can’t possibly explain everything to Fletcher. I can’t have one more person look at me the way my parents did that night, like I was foreign, other. Like they didn’t recognize me, couldn’t see me. They looked through me, like I was a ghost, a stranger._

            “I-I can’t really pretend to understand exactly what you’re going through, Kevin, but...if I can be of any help, my door is always open.”

            _Dad died, knowing. He knew the truth. Would it have been better for him to be able to die at peace, die believing lies? He may not have been proud before, but at least he wasn’t disgusted, disturbed. Just a little disappointed. I could live with disappointed. Disappointed wasn’t so bad, in hindsight. I didn’t blame him for being disappointed._

            I don’t realize I’m crying, until I see Fletcher reach out, offering a box of Kleenex. I take one, shoulders hitching forward, my laugh shaky, sheepish, “Thanks.”

            “No need to be ashamed.” Fletcher speaks bluntly, putting his tissues back on his desk.

            _There’s plenty to be ashamed of. So many things, I wouldn’t even know where to begin._ But I realize I don’t know if he’s talking about my crying in his office or if he perhaps, somehow, has an inkling of why. My cheeks burn at the thought of him being able to guess the source of my tears.

            But Fletcher speaks again, before I have a chance to say anything, “Look, Kevin. I don’t know the details, and it’s certainly none of my business, but may I give you some unsolicited advice?”

            I nod.

            “Let people help.” He pauses, chuckling to himself, “I sometimes see you around campus with that Connor boy. He’s nice, funny; good kid. I had him last semester for a writing seminar.”

            My throat begins to constrict. _Does he know? He knows. He has to know. He must at least suspect. Connor’s not exactly discrete about his affections. And I’m the other half._

            But he’s smiling. My shoulders relax a little.

            “I have another student in a few minutes coming in for the Paper Reviews, but please, if you need anything, feel free to talk, email, stop by.”

            I leave, feeling just a little bit lighter, as if the rocks that had been weighing me down were lifted.

 

            That feeling doesn’t last very long though.

            I stay at Connor’s, again, the night before the funeral.

            In the dark, I listen for Connor’s breathing.

_He’s awake._

“Connor?” I hate that my voice shakes a little. We know each other well – so well, he must hear it, every little nuance.  I feel him reach over, his hand steady, palm warm, fingers gentle. He holds my trembling hand, an anchor.

            “Yeah?”

            _Just ask. The worst thing he can say is no._

_Let people help._

            “Will you come with me?”

            Connor goes quiet, his grip slackening. He knows for what I’m asking. I shouldn’t have asked. I should have just gone alone, taken the bus back. Megan offered to drive back and come get me, but her voice broke in half when she offered. She couldn’t even finish her sentence. 

            And then I hear the pillow rustle. A tiny nod.

            “Yes,” Connor whispers. His hand tightens around mine, fitting together perfectly. His voice grows more certain, stabilizing, “Anything.”

            I want to say more, to let him in. I want to try to explain how my dad was neither a villain nor a saint. I had demonized him, the other night, turning him into a reflection of his worst self. But he wasn’t always that man, that terrible version. He was good. He was kind and loved deeply; he wanted us to be happy, even if that meant doing things that didn’t make us happy. He thought he had it all figured out.

            “Do you want to talk about it?” Connor’s voice breaks the silence.

            I shake my head. I can’t. There’s nothing to say. Nothing I say can change the facts, the truth. I used to think they were the same thing, fact and truth. But they’ve become so tangled, the line differentiating the two blurred and vague.

            Connor is quiet, but his breath is warm, and his heart is steady. I want to lean over, I want to feel him close, pressed up against each other like petals of a flower, impossible to tell where one starts and the other ends. There is over a foot of space between us. I roll over, onto my side, deepening that foot, even though I want nothing more than to close the space, turn it into inches, centimeters. 

            Guilt for wanting that.

_Let people help._

            I’m in pieces, a shamble of scattered fragments, not even whole, and still, somehow, Connor doesn’t find me repulsive, even though the rest of the world seems to. I was only ever just Boy until I met Connor. Connor made me more than Boy, someone I was equally ashamed and proud of. I was my best self with him. And perhaps, that was the worst part of it.

            A lump rises in my throat, pinching, stinging, burning. I swallow, a metallic taste in my mouth, the taste of fear and regret and sadness. I never knew those feelings had a distinctive taste, not until I met him. The damn bursts, and for a moment, I’m unsure why I’m crying, though nothing can quell the shaking, the gasping for air, buoyed by nothing but misguided hope.


	10. Chapter 10

            I stand in front of the mirror, hung on the back of Connor’s door. Run a hand through my hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame the stubborn cowlick. My eyes are puffy, mouth a thin line. I knot the tie, slowly, remembering how Dad had taught us years ago.  Dad had sat me down in the living room, his tie draped loosely around his neck. I was still small enough to fit in his lap. He spoke softly, guiding my hands around the unwieldy length of silky fabric, until it was neatly knotted. When he lifted me off his lap, carrying me over to the mirror to show me, he smiled proudly, “Very handsome, Boy.”

            _Enough of that._

I feel Connor gently rest his hand on my shoulder, coming up behind me to straighten my collar, tucking the tie underneath. I stare blankly at my reflection, nothing but a shell, vacant and expressionless.

            “Ready?” Connor bends over, double-knotting the laces of his oxfords, keeping his voice light.

            I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak.

            “Okay,” He emits a single sigh, monosyllabic, and I follow, head ducked down, shoulders slumped. I fold my arms across my chest, a pseudo-barrier.

            We walk to the car, and Connor drives with both hands gripped tightly around the wheel, his knuckles white. I slide my sunglasses on, staring out the windows at the trees, buildings, billboards flying by. But once we get onto the highway, I feel Connor’s hand on my knee, a quiet presence. He turns the radio on, softly, stealing glancing over at me when he thinks I’m not looking and the traffic is easy.

            “Kevin?” He lifts his hand back onto the wheel, “I don’t really think...I mean, this is your family...and I’m not-I mean, this doesn’t seem like the right place for me...to be.”

 _Was he backing out?_ He was still driving, but maybe he would just drop me off. I can still feel his hand’s imprint, the warmth and comfort. I feel bare, without it, without him; exposed and unsure. I don’t think I can do this without him.

             “Please.” My voice is raspy, almost inaudible.  It’s the first word I’ve said since last night. The silence I'd kept was broken, an unspoken spell. 

_I need you._

             Connor hesitates, but nods, “Okay.”

                                   

            I find Megan right away. She’s in the room with the casket, near Mom and Jack. Danny and Claire are talking to some people, her stomach noticeably fuller. Jack stares at his feet, barely even acknowledging me. But Megan throws her arms around my neck, peeling back after a moment.

            Mom dips her head, the corners of his mouth turning up into something resembling a smile.

            “You must be Connor.” There’s a warmth in her voice, even though I’ve never seen her look so sad.

            Connor reaches out, shakes her hand, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I realize I’ve never seen this side of him, the meeting-the-parents-for-the-first-time.  There is something instantly likable about him, down-to-earth, something I know would be parent-approved, had it not been so complicated.

            “Thank you,” my mother’s attention is turned to an older woman, who goes to our church, and the matter is quickly forgotten.

            Connor stays nearby, until he is ushered out, and it is just us, alone in this room with Dad. Mom stands over the open casket, her lips moving in silent prayer.

            She faces us, her cheeks flushed, eyes filled with tears, but her head held high. And then without a word, she walks to the back of the room, staying near the door. Danny and Jack both step up after Mom. I notice Jack reach out his hand to Danny, a gesture I’m not accustomed to seeing on him. A moment passes, before they join Mom and Megan stands over Dad, alone. She glances back at me, but my feet are frozen in place. I can’t move forward or back away. She bends her head down, her shoulders shaking, and she turns to Mom, finding solace in her comfort. I am last. When I look back, I see Mom speaking softly to the rest, and I brave the mere feet I must walk to face him again.

_We’ll fix you, Boy._

             His last words to me were not of anger. They were of a place of misunderstanding. Of uncertainty. Of trying his best.  He wanted to help, to make things better, he had never been truly malevolent. Not once. Not ever.

_Heavenly Father, help me._

            Pressure fills my chest, working its way up into my throat, filling the narrow airway.

            _Heavenly Father, why wasn’t there more time? Why didn’t you give him more time?_

Tears begin to roll down my cheeks, into the collar of my shirt.

            _Heavenly Father, I’m sorry._

Shame is pink, the color of my face, my ears, my eyes. I want to hide, but there is nowhere to run. Heavenly Father would still see. He sees everything.

I don’t know how much time passes, but I feel a hand, timid and delicate on my shoulder. I swipe roughly at my eyes, blinking through the moisture.

            Megan. She nods, _It’s time._

      

            Connor finds me at the end of the graveside service. His hands are deep in his pockets. I’d worn my sunglasses so that nobody could tell how much I’d been crying, how my eyes were so puffy and watery, I could barely see clearly. Connor peers intently at me, and though I know he can’t see through the dark lenses, I feel as though he can see everything.

            “Hey, Kev.” We stand in the middle of the dispersing crowd, “Did you want to ride with me to the reception?”

            I nod, thankful for the initiative, following him to his car, feeling safe once more in his familiar presence. I’d grown up with most of these people, but they suddenly seemed like strangers compared to Connor.

 

            Connor drives us back to school that same evening. We leave the reception together, Megan opting to stay through the weekend. I say my farewells, and climb into the passenger seat, loosening my tie. I inhale deeply, the first time I’ve been able to truly breathe all day.

            “Kev?” Connor’s voice tips up uncertainly, “Can I talk to you for a second?”

            “Sure.” I’m suddenly sleepy. I rest my head against the side of the window, allowing my eyes to close briefly.

            “I-I know it’s been a long day. And maybe this isn’t a good time, but I was thinking...wondering - what you thought about-about transferring.”

            “Transferring?” My head shoots up and I’m alert. After Connor’s roommate situation earlier this year, transferring had crossed my mind, but I’d never entertained it as a serious possibility. It was only a whim, a secret fantasy of someday leaving this place. But the moment I realized it meant leaving Connor, Megan, my mother, I hadn’t given it a second thought. Trading for a different environment wasn’t worth losing that.

            “Yeah. Like-like New York or something. A place we can start over. I did a little research, most schools do rolling admissions, which just means we can apply anytime during the year as transfers; it’s not like high school.”

            I nod, smile. But Connor grimaces, continues to argue his points, “I mean...can we be happy at BYU?”

            I shrug.

_I’m happy wherever you are._

            “It wouldn’t have to be in New York. But...I just...I don’t think I can stay. You know?”

            I reach out my hand, placing it over his, “Yeah.”

 

 

            Connor sends me schools that he likes and I send him mine. We apply to the same five, narrowed down after a few weeks of reading and researching and emailing and calling.

            I spend almost every weekend at his apartment, either looking at schools with him or watching movies. We no longer sit on separate far sides of the couch – more often than not, I find myself fitted against his side, my head resting in the space between his shoulder and neck, bent against his. I never knew that comfort smelled like his hair, something distinct but without a name, sleepy and safe. His arm wraps around mine, radiating warmth, an inexplicable dichotomy between strong and gentle. I stay frozen in this position for as long as I can stand it, even after my neck becomes stiff and my foot falls asleep, not wanting to risk somehow breaking the enchantment that’s cast over us in these moments.

           

            Four out of the five schools require recommendations from professors. During Professor Fletcher’s office hours, I knock on the metal doorframe. I can see him, twisting absentmindedly back and forth in his desk chair as he types on his computer. The chair pivots when he sees me, and he smiles widely.

            “Kevin! How can I help you?”

            “Oh, um, I just...I was just wondering if you could maybe write a few recommendations for me?” I hold out the pre-addressed and stamped envelopes, the blank recommendation forms neatly folded inside.

            “I’d be happy to! What for?” He flips through the envelopes, glancing at the addresses, his smile fading.

            I duck my head, shoulders curling, my face reddening, forcing myself to meet his eyes, “College. I’m thinking of transferring.”

            “Oh. Well, I’m sorry to see you leave.” He puts the envelopes in a stack on his desk on top of other paperwork, “But I’ll complete these and mail them out tomorrow.”

            “Thanks,” It comes out breathy.

            “Of course!” A smile returns, infectious and easy, “And if you need anything else between now and then, please don’t hesitate to stop by, send an email, anything.”

            I nod, _Thanks._

 

            Easter break is uneventful. I avoid mentioning the transfer process to anyone, even Megan, and especially Mom. I know I need to tell them, but I want to have a plan, an acceptance from at least one school, preferably the same as Connor's.

            Returning to BYU is a breath of fresh air, though it would be more accurate to say that I was returning to Connor’s apartment. I spend more time there than in my own dorm room, meeting with him after classes are over for the day and riding home with him, staying the night most weekends, and plenty of weekdays.

            Connor texts me one afternoon to check my mailbox. He says he’ll be there in ten minutes. Our original plan was to open our college letters at his apartment.  I hadn’t checked my box in a while – people rarely sent me anything. But Connor had been waiting for these letters for days. He must’ve gotten it first thing when he went home after class. But the caveat is that we both have to get the acceptance to the same school. And frankly, I need a scholarship, which is often more competitive than the admittance itself. Although I don’t want to be alone in this, acceptance or rejection, I have a feeling Connor is more nervous than I am. My suspicions are confirmed when I see Connor pull up in the parking lot outside the student union, biting his lower lip and shaking his knee up and down.

           

            At his apartment, I pull the envelope out of my bag. I’m almost certain it’s an acceptance letter, given its large size. I notice Connor’s is sitting on the table, already opened.

            “Kevin, please, please, please, hurry up,” Connor hovers over my shoulder, making me so nervous I have to retry sliding the letter opener three times before it slices cleanly through.

             I scan the first line of the letter, beneath the heading.

            _We are pleased to inform you..._

_...Presidential scholarship._

            “Connor!” I’m squealing, roughly the pitch and volume of a small child who hasn’t mastered their inside voice. 

            “You got in?” Connor snaps his head between me and the letter. I cling to the paper, shedding the envelope on the coffee table.

            “Yes! Yeah! Wait, did you?” I look over at his letter. He had to, I’m almost positive, his letter is identical to mine. It’s our top school, and for me, financially, the most generous.

            “I’m so sorry, Kev, I just-I couldn’t wait.” He brings his over, “I-I’m so glad.” He’s shaking, but smiling, and he glances down at his letter once more, as if verifying its existence. And in that moment, all I can hear is him, his laugh, light and bubbly, not my father, not even my mother, telling me how wrong I am to want this, to want him. I can see him, so clearly, and without thinking, I grab his shoulder, leaning forward, my lips meeting his. He stops, startles, and then reciprocates, before pulling back.

            “What was that for?” Connor cocks his head to the side, chuckling, “I mean, I’m not complaining, but...”

            I can’t stop giggling, uncontrolled ecstasy, drunk on happiness and a love as deep as it is wide, unwavering, unconditional, “I don’t know!” 

            My eyes meet his, laugh dissolving, and as if telepathic, we lean in at the same time, interlocked like puzzle pieces. We are the same person, and in this moment, I can barely tell where he ends and I begin. I feel his hands rove over my back, territory unexplored, sweep through my hair. Closing my eyes, it’s everything and more I imagined, explosions of warmth, combusting and bursting.

            And then, in an instant, it’s over.

            I open my eyes, and find him only centimeters away from my face, his hand still cupped along my jawline, fingers cradled around my ear. He tips his head, our foreheads leaning against the other. We stay like this, in silence, feeling the rapid pulse fluttering in the other's chest. 

            “I love you.” Connor’s voice is barely louder than a whisper, and even as close as we are, I have to strain to hear him. He seems surprised by himself, like the words escaped without permission. I pull away, just far enough so that I can see him, and his eyes are shimmering, the color of the ocean on a perfect day, a faint smile dancing on his lips. He focuses intently on me; an artist and his muse. I see nothing but his face, peripheral vision blinded by the sight of him.

            I realize I never knew what it meant to love someone, to be loved so thoroughly and hopelessly; hearing those words spoken by him seemed to give them a whole new meaning they'd never had before. I didn’t know a lot of things, until I found him, for better or worse. Or more accurately, until he found me. He was the one who saved me from a lifetime of lies, of heartache and misery, finding me and turning me into a better version of myself. The best version. If we were two sides of the same coin, he was fearless, undaunted. Always brave, always saving. Time and time again, he has saved me from myself.

             And knowing this, trusting him so wholly, I allow myself to be led away by him, sans shame and guilt.


	11. Chapter 11

            I stare up at the ceiling. There is a watermark on the white drywall, the fan making a clicking sound during each rotation, whirring and spinning.  I can see my shadow cast on the wall, flickering as my chest rises and falls. I raise my hand, watch the shadow mirror my movements. I could fall asleep right now, my entire body coming down off of a high like I’ve never experienced before. I pull a blanket around me, skin clammy.

            I can only remember it in glimpses, brief snatches of time. His strong hands, so gentle, so tender, so sure. The sound of his breath, growing faster, louder, more urgent, my breathing matching his, synchronized. The way the bed creaked beneath our weight. And his voice, deeper than I ever remembered it being, every so often slicing through the white noise of the room, _Are you okay? Is this okay?_ Spasms, explosions. And when I looked into his eyes, an appetite, a hunger I’d never seen before.

            Connor is beside me, still in a euphoric stupor, and I find my boxers and shirt, cast aside on the floor in a heap.  Miles of soft and freckled skin, I’ve never seen anyone quite as beautiful as Connor, lying there in a tangle of blankets. He sighs, happily, contentedly, half-asleep, his eyes closed, before he stirs, eyes opening slowly, wide and blue and unblinking. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips until it eclipses his entire face.

            No, I’ve never seen anyone close to as beautiful as him.

            “It was always you.” Connor murmurs, through closed lips.

            “What?” I climb back onto the bed, curl up against Connor’s side.

            He shifts so we are on the same level, facing each other.

            “You. I never thought I’d meet anyone...and then you happened.”

            This distinctly echoes how I’d felt for so long, how Connor had changed my life, but only for the better. How I couldn’t ever imagine a day without him. How after this, I knew for sure, what it meant to love someone - to know, to feel, to see nothing but him. To care in a capacity more than I ever imagined was humanly possible. And yet, I'd never told him any of this. I never could.

            “I love you,” Connor looks into my eyes, so deeply, so intensely, I have the urge to kiss him. But I restrain myself, force myself to stay where I am, and hear myself whisper it back, the words I didn’t realize until now that he needed to hear, the words I needed to say.

            “I love you, too.”

           

            I return to my dorm room, early the next morning. Gideon is there, on his laptop at his desk. The moment I unlock the door and step inside, I wish I hadn’t.  Gideon has not been very friendly recently, but he hasn’t been outright mean, though I suspect he has the potential to, should I give him a reason.

            “You’re back early. Late night?” There’s something edgy in his voice, like he’s holding back. I set my backpack down at my desk, carefully, facing him. For a half-second, from walking by the sink, I catch a glance in the mirror of my reflection – messy hair, haphazardly buttoned shirt.

            _You don’t owe him any explanations._

_But he knows. He already knows._

I back against the wall, waiting for him to say something, anything. The relaxed, easy feeling of being at home immediately evaporates, and any semblance of feeling safe that Connor had created is quickly shattered.

            “You lied. When you said nothing was happening with Connor.”

            It takes me a moment to realize what conversation he’s referencing. The one from before finals last semester.

            “I just said I didn’t know what rumors you were talking about. Which was true.” I’m surprised by how calm I sound, how rational. Gideon must be surprised, too, because he doesn’t respond right away, sputtering.

             “So you don’t deny it?” It comes out less a question and more a statement.

             I shake my head in slow motion.

_No. I can’t say nothing happened. Not anymore._

            To my surprise, Gideon sinks into a chair, folding his legs to his chest.

            “It’s April.”

            I’m not sure what that means, or why he’s telling me what month it is. I don’t risk speaking.

            “It’s too late to change rooms. The year’s almost over.” He seems to be talking to himself. The words are quiet, and tinged with something frantic.

_This is true. So now what?_

            He meets my eyes, uncurling, standing, “So, let’s just...you just stay the hell away, got it? Connor isn’t welcome in this room. I keep out of your business, you keep out of mine.” He seems satisfied with this, and picks up his backpack, muttering about studying in the library. I don’t protest, unsure how to feel. He isn’t reporting me, he isn’t even moving out, though there’s no certainty of what he might do next. But upon unpacking my bag, filing away the acceptance letter, I’m quickly reminded that in a few short weeks, it will all be over. I’ll be with Connor and this will someday be nothing more than a distant memory.

 

            I stay over at Connor’s apartment that weekend, avoiding Gideon as much as possible. Since our conversation, he has kept his interactions minimal, but polite. I feel relief as days pass and nothing happens – no emails, no phone calls, no harassments. I don't tell Connor - he doesn't need another thing to worry about.

            Connor sits beside me on the couch. He has already told his parents about his plans to move to New York. I don’t know what he has or hasn’t told them about me, but they know about the general idea of transferring, starting over across the country. I have been procrastinating, but as the days pass, the idea of Mom finding out from someone else becomes more worrisome.

            “Just call her.” Connor hands me my phone that’s sitting on the coffee table, a foreboding piece of metal and plastic.

             “Connor, I really think it’d be better if she heard it in person...” I argue feebly, though we’d agreed we’d tell our parents once we’d scraped together a plan. We’ve had a plan for just under a week, now.

            I gingerly pick up the phone, like a poisonous snake.

 _It’ll be okay,_ Connor mouths, as I dial slowly, carefully, my hands shaking.

            “Kevin?” Mom sounds worried. I don’t want her to worry.

            “Mom? Hi!” I keep my voice light.

_Everything is fine._

            “Hi, Sweetie, it’s so good to hear from you! How are you?”

            “Good. Good – I was wondering if you had a second?”

            “Of course...yeah. What’s going on?”

            “I um...I was sorta thinking. I mean, it’s not that big a deal, but I was thinking about kind of switching schools. Like, for next year. I mean, I know it’s a big deal, but it’s really not, I’ve already done all the applications and stuff, I got accepted, I think it might be a really good thing but I—” 

            “—You’re transferring?” Mom interrupts, thankfully cutting me off. She doesn’t sound angry or even sad, just surprised.

            “Yeah...yeah. I just...I don’t think it’s been a good fit. With all the stuff. You know?” I don't elaborate on which stuff, exactly.

            There is a pause, and I glance over at Connor, who has busied himself with some flashcards, a thinly-veiled attempt to appear as though he weren’t listening.

            “Of course, Sweetie. I’m sorry to see you leave, but I-I want you to be happy.” Mom’s voice fades away, like the phone line cut out.

            “Mom?”

            “Yeah, I just...I keep thinking.” She laughs dryly, “Of when you were a little boy. You were always my little boy. I don’t know when things started to go wrong...but I was wrong. Sweetie, I want you know – I need you to know – I love you. I’ve always loved you. But I was grieving that little boy. I felt like I’d lost him, you know, when you told your father and me some of those things about yourself. But...after you dad died, I realize, now...I never lost that boy, you were always right here.” Her voice hitches, and she struggles to speak through an inhale. There is a moment of silence, before she is able to continue. “I didn’t agree with sending you to the clinic.  The things that happen at those places...but your dad...he-he was a good man.  And I think in his own way, he wanted to help you. He always blamed himself, you know. It was never about you.”

            I feel my throat begin to close, the small space filling with pressure. Dad didn’t die hating me, maybe he never hated me. Disappointed, perhaps, but just as much with himself as me. It wasn’t about me. Tears prick my eyes, threatening to spill over, but I swallow hard, biting my quivering lip. Shakily exhale.

            "I'm proud of you," I hear her sniff, even though I can tell she's holding the phone away from her.

            "Why?" Proud would've been the last word I'd expect her to use.

            "For...being...for being so brave. For doing what you need to do."

            I realize this is what I'd always thought of Connor, so brave, so self-aware. Always himself. I can see him sitting across the room from me, having faced more than I have, and yet, remained, doing what he's always done: understanding, helping, loving. 

            Always loving. Always there.


	12. Chapter 12

            The last week of classes, I find myself wandering down the hall of the Humanities department, past Fletcher’s office door. The door is slightly ajar and I can see the walls have been stripped of the illustrated posters, tongue-in-cheek cartoons, and news articles. They look bare, impersonal. Fletcher is at his desk on the computer, surrounded by cardboard boxes. He looks up and smiles broadly.

            “How are you, Kevin?” He closes his computer, spins to face me, waving me in, “Come in, pull up a seat.”

            I step inside, looking around, hands in my pockets. He never said anything about leaving. Maybe professors pack up their offices each summer?

            “I’m good, thanks,” I think of Connor, “Really good, actually.”

            Fletcher’s eyes twinkle, but he doesn’t say anything about it, about Connor.

            “I guess this is goodbye, then. You're off to New York.” Fletcher pats the folded top of the box near his desk, “It’s really been a pleasure.”

            “Thanks – for doing all those recommendations and stuff.” _And the advice, understanding, listening, being there._

            “Of course, Kevin.” Fletcher’s smile falters, before reappearing just as quickly as it had faded. He laughs dryly, “I uh, I was just thinking of um, of how you remind me a lot of myself.”

            “Really?”

            “You and Connor...you both remind me a lot of myself and my spouse. Back when we were in college.”

            I realize that for an entire semester, this is the first time he’s mentioned being married. He’s never once spoken of his personal life, though I noticed he wore a ring on his left hand. There are no current pictures of his family in his office, unlike most of the other professors, who have at least one hanging somewhere on their walls. There was only the photo of the little boy, the young man on the mountain.

            He is snapped out of her nostalgic reverie, and the opportunity to ask has passed, “Ah, well. I really do wish the best for both of you as you move to the City. It’s very different than here – I lived there for a bit during grad school.”

            “Did you enjoy it?”

            He looks wistful, remembering his college years. “Bits and pieces. It was different, in a good way. But alas, Henry got a job here, not on the East Coast.”

            _Henry. Henry must be his spouse._

“Anyway. That’s enough of that. You’re going to find all sorts of wonderful things to do there, I’m sure.”

            “Thanks,” I say, much softer. I glance at the boxes, and Fletcher seems to read my mind, smiling in spite of a rather sad look replacing the gleam in his eyes just minutes prior.

            “Retirement.” He shrugs, “Happens to the best of us.”

            He was going quietly, without fanfare. No articles, no emails, nothing to commemorate his leaving. Not even a little party. He was just going to disappear, after years of helping people; seeing them, hearing them, supporting them, loving them. Caring about them.

            I stay where I am, planted in the middle of his office. He waits for me to say something, expects me to argue or wither, but I know I don’t have anything to offer that could compare to what he’s given me. I move toward the door, hesitating, before turning, facing him.

            “Thank you,” My lips part, but barely any sound escapes.

            He regards me, misty-eyed, “You’re a talented writer, Kevin. I hope you continue.”

_Goodbye._

 

            I stand outside his office in the hallway for a while, out of view, reflecting on our last conversation. _You remind me of myself._ Is that why he was so kind? Why he gave the advice that he did? I realize when he said _No need to be ashamed_ he was only referencing weeping in his office at a surface level. He’d known all along, he recognized himself in me. I didn’t know at the time – how could I? – but I wish I can turn around, explain to him that I understand, now. He gave me hope, when I had none, offering advice that would make more sense in hindsight. I wasn't alone. Watching, accepting. Always present, compassion and intuition few other professors seemed to possess. I don’t know if I’ll ever be in his position, with someone standing in front of me, broken over something I’d once grappled with so personally, but if the time ever comes, I hope I can be half the man Fletcher was.

            I stay in the hall, until I find my balance, growing more steady with each step, as I walk further from his open door.

 

            On the last day of finals, Connor comes by my dorm to pack up my things before we drive across the country.  Gideon doesn’t say anything as I bring my last load of stuff down to the car, but he tilts his chin up, raises his eyebrows, an acknowledgement. _See you_ _._

We find a motel, a cheap place with scratchy sheets and a rug that’s suspiciously grimy, almost sticky. We fall asleep, pressed together in the middle of one of the two beds like sardines. I almost forget a time when I didn’t drift to sleep with the sound of his heart, beating next to my ear, his breathing soft.

            My phone rings on the nightstand. I carefully rise, untangling my arms and legs from his, Connor stirring, but not waking.

            “Hello?” I’m groggy, yawning.

            “Kev? Kev? It’s Danny. We-we just had a baby. I’m a dad.”

            I snap on the light on the nightstand. Connor had been so excited at the prospect of being an uncle, even if he wasn’t officially in the family. He’d want to be awake for this.

            I gently shake his shoulder, mouthing, _Baby._ Connor’s eyes snap open, a massive grin. If there was a surefire way to make him smile like this, I would do it.

            _Put it on speaker_ , he mouths.

            “Kevin?” there is a static sound when it flips onto speakerphone.

            “Yeah? Yeah, it’s us, you’re on speaker.”

            “Claire is doing great, the baby is doing great. I think 8 pounds 3 ounces? I don’t remember. They just weighed, but-”

            “-What’s his name?”

            “Girl. Oh my God, I can’t believe I didn’t tell you. Girl, it’s a girl. The sweetest little baby girl.”

            I glance over at Connor, melting at the sight of him. He’s already swooning over a baby, the thought of a sleepy little bundle of promise, of new beginnings.

            “What’s her name?” Connor asks softly.

            Danny is so overcome with excitement, I don’t even know if he realizes it’s not me speaking.

            “Adalyn. Adalyn Rose.” I hear some commotion in the background, “I gotta go, but we’ll talk soon, okay? I hear you’re moving out to New York – you’ll have to make sure to come out and visit sometime. Okay, love you, talk soon, bye!”

 

            Connor is quiet in the car the next day. He drives, eyes glued to the road, both hands on the wheel.

            “What's up?” I turn, glance at him. He blinks, spun back to earth, smiles sheepishly.

            “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

            “What is it?” I press. I wouldn’t normally, but he’s been different since the phone call last night. It's not bad, exactly, but different. Quieter. Connor McKinley was never like this, introverted and reticent.

            “It’s just...I used to dream of being a dad, Kev. And-and I wouldn’t trade what we have for anything, but...”

            “We still could.” The words jump out of my mouth before I can fully think them through, the implications of what I'd said. _What if he was scared off by my implying we could be a family?_

            “Really?” His voice rises in pitch, his eyes lighting up.

            I nod. I’d thought about this, back when I first came out. What I’d do when I wanted to have a family, if Connor was the one I could imagine myself having a family with. If being with him was worth risking never having the family I thought I would. It’s more than worth it, though. I feel as though I’ve waited for him my entire life. When considered that way, it doesn’t seem like we’re moving fast at all.

            “Yeah. I mean, I don’t know about right now, but...someday.” Connor smiles, and though I don’t know what, exactly, he’s imagining, I suspect he’s picturing the day we bring home our own baby, a home cluttered with plastic bottles, and jars of formula, and teeny-tiny onesies. He’d sing the baby to sleep, giving them a kiss that somehow manages to communicate in a single half-second _I’m here, I love you, I see you, I’ll take care of you._

            “Someday.”


End file.
